


In Their Blood

by TheFaye92



Series: Shield and Foundation [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A Slight Taste of Despair, Action/Adventure, Character of Faith, Darkspawn, Demons, Dragon Fight, Dragons, Epic Fighting Sequences, Implied Sexual Content, Multi, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Romance, Sexual Imagery, Skyhold under attack, Slow Build, Spoilers, The Deep Roads, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 170,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3649767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFaye92/pseuds/TheFaye92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out as a simple search and rescue mission, but now its spiraled into a battle of life and death. As the Inquisitor and her friends cut a bloody swath through the Deep Roads, Commander Cullen struggles with an enemy camped right out their front door. Skyhold is under siege, and their leader isn't home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I: Varric

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for clicking and checking it out. Big thanks to my beta, enco432. 
> 
> Disclaimer: All assets belong to Bioware, except for original characters, and I am grateful for the chance to play in their sandbox.

**Chapter I, a Prologue - Varric  
**

Varric Tethras was not the kind of man who woke up early. He liked sleeping in and now with Corypheus finished he should have felt more inclined to stay in bed as long as he liked. It wasn’t meant to be though. Despite his early morning grogginess, he climbed the tower steps to the rookery where a neat pile of notes waited for him. Leliana was nowhere to be seen, so he scooped the letters up and headed back downstairs to his favorite spot by the hearth. 

It was always easier to read letters after breakfast, but it would be a few more hours before they started serving it, so he decided to skim though the notes. A bill, a missive from the guild, an update from one of his Kirkwall contacts, something from his editor…. he came to the final letter in the stack. With a careful hand, he popped the red wax seal and opened the note.

He knew the handwriting; recognized it the same way he might recognize the author. Seeing the carefully crossed T’s and perfectly dotted i’s filled him with a sudden, _horrible_ dread. There was no reason—no reason at all why _he_ would send him letter. Not unless something had happened.

_Serah Varric Tethras,_

_I am sure my lady wife regaled you with the story of how she “escaped” Starkhaven with nothing but my bow and her daggers. You both had a good laugh at my expense. You know how I am with Skylar’s jokes, she never means them to hurt, though I was rather upset when I found out she left the safety of Starkhaven for the Inquisition—and at your behest. Although I do not blame you, our Hawke is the kind of woman who needs to help where she can. And she did send me a letter when she arrived at Skyhold to put my fears to rest._

_Nevertheless, several months ago, as you must recall, you sent me a bird explaining that Skylar had made for Weisshaupt Fortress in order to inform the Grey Warden’s about certain disturbing indiscretions. Now with the most immediate threat to Thedas defeated, I am sure you’re resting. But Varric, my friend, I have no one else to go to._

_I have not heard a word from her since she entered the Anderfels. I am willing to admit that I am scared. Hawke is missing._

_I would not come to you and the Inquisition if I were not so desperate. By the time this letter reaches you, I will be in Ferelden and well on my way to the Inquisition’s fortress._

The note was signed _Prince Sebastian Vael, Chantry Advisor to the Throne of Starkhaven._

“Oh _shit_ ,” Varric let the letter fall out of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta and I started a joint tumblr, check it out here: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter II: The Inquisitor

**Chapter II - The Inquisitor**

Genevieve Trevelyan loved waking up shrouded in soft silk and nothing else, wrapped up in Blackwall’s warm, strong embrace, a sweet ache between her legs and up her abdomen. Waking up like this meant another day past and Corypheus was still dead. After a full year and a half of war it was bittersweet to not be needed so much. She was still Inquisitor and there was still cleaning up that had to be done but she could delegate more with most of the rifts closed. 

Gently, Genevieve tried to wriggle out of Blackwall’s arms. He pulled her closer to him and pressed his mouth to the back of her neck. “And where are you going?” he muttered sleepily.

“Nowhere in particular,” she whispered and turned her position so she could kiss him. The sun was filtering in through the windows casting fractals of warm colored light onto the bed. Genevieve hummed softly; it was too warm and comfortable to leave. She was supposed to look over some documents with Cullen today and position soldiers to a few places where the Venatori were still active—but that could wait another few hours. Cullen wasn’t going anywhere.

Even though Blackwall was strong and muscled he was always gentle with her. Sometimes too gentle, she lamented, but he was a head taller and nearly a hundred stone heavier. It was appreciated, especially when he dropped his tough-manly-man exterior when they were alone. Here he was just Blackwall, he said her name like it was a prayer and didn’t mind that she made him bathe regularly before they went to bed, and he whispered sweet things in her ear.

Genevieve was flushed now as their kisses morphed from demure and chaste to passionate and needy. In the dark it was just them cloaked in sleeping furs and night, but now the sunlight bounced off their bodies. His skin was tanned, crisscrossed with white scars, and pulled taught over thick and powerful muscle. She was pale where the sun never caught her, her stomach, her legs. And like him, she had her scars, not nearly as many, but they were just as ugly and beautiful as his. Each had a story; a twisted almost welt-like mark on her thigh where an assassin had hit her with a crossbow bolt, another across the center of her chest where a Venatori rogue had gotten lucky (until Blackwall and Bull caught him, his luck ran dry when facing their swords), and there were others, but Blackwall always seemed to gravitate to the two that had almost taken her from him.

Blackwall kissed along her collar bone and down to the scar between her breasts. He followed down her body, kissing her stomach, then her hip, and to the ugly twist of skin on her thigh. He came back to her and captured her lips, she smiled against him. There were caresses now, soft and meaningful. Genevieve traced the line of his back with a teasing finger. So strong and powerful and all hers.

He didn’t need cues, he knew exactly where to touch her and when. Since he was the more experience party, she was never left wanting. Although she hardly needed encouragement—together they were enough. And Blackwall seemed to find his own satisfaction in pleasing her, though sometimes she felt she had to remind him that she wasn’t made of porcine and that it was alright for him to let go.

And just as things got to their most heated point, someone started banging on the door. Genevieve bit back a curse and growled; “Something _better_ be on _fire_ ,”

Blackwall pulled back and frowned, he was up in an instant and pulling on smalls and a pair of breeches. Genevieve grumbled as their guest pounded on the door. “Just a moment!” she called sweetly in the hopes that it hid her displeasure. She found a robe, pulled it on, and tied it just in time for Varric to come barging up the stairs.

“Inquisitor, I need your help,” he was holding a piece of paper up and didn’t seem to notice that they were half dressed. “It’s from Choir-Boy,”

Genevieve plucked the paper from his hand and wondered what could be so damnably important as to drag Varric out of bed so early and into her quarters. She read through the letter twice before she felt full able to speak.

“Oh, Josephine is not going to like this,” she muttered.

Varric crossed his arms, not amused. “That’s beside the point,” he took the letter back. “My best friend—Hawke—hasn’t been seen in months.”

Genevieve frowned. She knew how Varric felt for the Champion, and it almost hurt her feelings knowing that she would never have that kind of friendship with Varric. She would never be Genevieve or even Trevelyan to him, only Inquisitor.

“Varric,” she said softly, hoping to calm him. “She went to Weisshaupt, it’s very far away. I would expect her to loose communication out there.”

The dwarf looked insulted by the notion that Hawke would somehow fail to communicate with them. “Look, Hawke isn’t like your run-of-mill heroes, okay? If Choir-Boy—” he shook his head, flustered. “If Sebastian says he hasn’t heard from her then I believe him. Hawke wouldn’t do that to him.”

Genevieve frowned and looked over at Blackwall. They shared a knowing, understanding glance. She was needed, they could continue later. Genevieve looked back at Varric and nodded. “Alright Varric, let me bathe and dress and we’ll meet in the war room in an hour. We’ll figure out what to do.”

XXXX

Followed by her two loyal guardsmen, Ser Marbrand and Ser Brandon, Blackwall escorted Genevieve to the war room and then left her, claiming chores. He promised to join her for lunch. But for now it was time for business. Varric and her advisors had already arrived and were waiting patiently for her.

“Morning,” she said taking her place before the map. Varric came to stand beside her.

Leliana spoke first; “I must apologize, Inquisitor, Josie. My people saw the Prince moving out of Starkhaven a month ago. It didn’t seem terribly odd, so I did not mention it,”

Genevieve nodded and ran her fingers through her short damp hair. “It’s alright; your job is to look out for danger. Prince Vael has been an ally, there’s no reason to suspect bad intentions.”

Varric cleared his throat irritably. “What about Hawke? I thought you’d have someone on her, Nightingale.”

“I did,” Leliana answered, Genevieve thought she sighted a slight hint of embarrassment come across the spymaster’s face. Leliana sighed and looked down at the map.

“But she lost them, huh?” Genevieve asked.

“My people are good, but…not that good.” Leliana pointed to Kirkwall on the map. “She evaded Most Holy and I until you asked her to come, Varric.”

Varric nodded, defeat across his face. Genevieve placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her and she smiled. “She’s strong, Varric,” she murmured. “I don’t think anything could bring her down easy.” She remembered Lady Hawke very well. A dashing woman with twin daggers and a love of riddles. She had been a most entertaining and helpful guest.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Inquisitor,” Varric said. “But I know Hawke; she wouldn’t just stop sending letters. She told me not to expect any correspondence for a while, but she would never stop communications with Choir-Boy. _Never_.”

Genevieve frowned and looked at her spymaster. “Leliana, get some feelers out there; perhaps Hawke left a trail or some clues?”

Leliana gave a slight bow; “Of course, Inquisitor,”

Genevieve looked to Josephine; “I’m sure this goes without saying but see preparations made for the Prince’s arrival. The note doesn’t say he’s bringing a retinue, but it’s safe to assume he’s at least traveling with an escort.” Josephine nodded in agreement and promised to have everything ready by the time the Prince arrived.

“Shall I place some men on the pass to escort the Prince to the Keep?” Cullen asked, he was holding onto the stack of missives she’d promised to go over with him.

“Yes, ten men will do, I think,” Genevieve said reaching her hand across the table, “Shall I take those letters?” Cullen handed her the papers. “Then we will hear what the Prince has to say when he arrives.”

“What would you have us do if his concerns are unfounded?” Leliana asked.

“The truth,” Genevieve spoke the truth to her allies as best she could. There were somethings they weren’t privy to (and for good reason) but she always felt it was best to be truthful.

“And if she _is_ in trouble?” Varric demanded.

“Then the Inquisition owes her their help,” Genevieve promised. “But I will investigate it first, Varric. I will not move troops away from their families on a hunch and there’s still Venatori…”

“I get it,” Varric growled. She didn’t blame him for being upset, Hawke was his friend, but it was a lot to ask for just one person, even if that person had helped them stop Corypheus’ plot. Genevieve believed she owed Hawke for helping them—and if she truly was in trouble, or was missing, the Inquisition would help.

But sometimes people leave without explanation. She and Solas hadn’t always gotten along, but he’d been a wealth of knowledge. Genevieve had always considered herself a relatively learned mage, but he knew more than she could ever imagine. She’d learned so much from him, had considered him a friend, someone she could discuss the Fade and spirits with. It had made her angry that he’d left without a word; she had almost sent men out looking for him before she’d talked herself out of it. Solas had lived most of his life alone, with the breach closed and Corypheus gone, he’d probably gone back to his quiet, solitary existence, and wouldn’t thank her if Inquisition soldiers disrupted it because she missed him.

“We should get to our duties,” Genevieve excused them. They filed out, leaving her in the quiet of the war room. She glared down at the letters, wishing, as she had so many times before, that there was a spell that could make paperwork do itself. There were better things to do then clerical work—gardening, riding her dracolisk down to the river, Blackwall... But duty called, as it always did.

With Corypheus gone she had the chance to relax, to live her life without it constantly being in danger. But she had replaced danger with routine and boredom. Her only breaks from the hum-drum of signing documents came when she decided to handle a clean-up job herself. And those were becoming few and far between.

It almost felt like being back at the Circle. _Almost._

With another sigh, Genevieve gathered up all the papers and opened the door to find Cass— _Most Holy_ , she reminded herself and bowed her head. “Most Holy,” she greeted.

The Divine fixed her with a harsh look. “Cassandra,” she corrected. “I am not Divine yet.” Genevieve smirked; Cassandra was more uncomfortable with being called Most Holy than Genevieve had been when everyone called her “your Worship.”

Ser Marband, the elder knight of her personal detail, took the stack of papers from her and they went down the hall. “You’ll get used to it eventually,” she told the former Seeker.

“I assure you, there will be no need for you to call me that, _ever_.” Cassandra insisted. “Once I name you my Right Hand no one will question how we refer to each other.”

“I wish you’d reconsider,” Genevieve grumbled, she knew there was no way to convince her otherwise, but she always had to try. “I am a mage, Cassandra. It will not sit well with the rest of the Chantry, many are already upset that I was even asked my opinion on the matter.”

Cassandra shook her head and they entered the main hall. “They will find a way to deal with it,” she hissed. “You are my truest friend, you know this,”

Genevieve smiled; there was a love between them that she had never had with her own flesh-and-blood sister. She would do anything Cassandra asked of her, not just because the Seeker had put her name forth as Inquisitor, not just because she was to be the leader of the Chantry, but because they were sisters in all but name. “As Most Holy commands,”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “I know you have work to do, but I was hoping we could have breakfast together. I need to get away from _that cow_.”

 _That cow_ had become somewhat of a code name for the absolutely indomitable Mother Delphine. Mother Delphine was infamous for her strict beliefs, her stringent adherence to the Chantry’s traditions, and her holier-than-thou-attitude. She was _not_ happy that Cassandra had been made Divine and even though she had been tasked with preparing her for the Sunburst Throne, she seemed to have made it her life’s mission to ensure everyone was annoyed out of their minds before the coronation. Even the soft-spoken Revered Mother Giselle didn’t like her, and Genevieve lived under the belief that you had to work hard to make the elderly Mother dislike you.

“Of course,” Genevieve asked Ser Brandon, her younger knight and former Templar, to head to the kitchens and have breakfast delivered to her quarters.

It was turning out to be a pleasant summer morning, so Genevieve and Cassandra moved a table and chairs out to the balcony. Genevieve left her paperwork on the desk; she would deal with it after their breakfast.

Belinda, the dwarven cook who helped run Skyhold’s kitchens always knew exactly what Genevieve wanted. Something warm and sweet, maybe drizzled with honey, and the cook delivered just that. Genevieve helped herself to a sticky bun to satiate her sweet tooth, although it rarely stayed satisfied for long. Cassandra was far more practical in her eating habits, but when it was just them she indulged long enough to eat two before getting to her boiled egg.

“Have they named a date for your coronation?” Genevieve asked.

“I pray they never do,” Cassandra grunted.

Genevieve set her fork down and sighed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Cassandra reached over and took her hand.

“I know,” she gave Genevieve’s hand a soft squeeze. “They put you on the spot.”

That wasn’t exactly true. Mother Giselle and a few other members of the Chantry had spoken to her, written letters, and implored her to help them find suitable leadership. She had stewed over it for weeks determined to give them an answer before the Inquisition marched on the Arbor Wilds. Did she pick Leliana; clever, cruel when it was called for, but merciful in a way befitting a Sister? Determined to tear down the old and usher in a new, maybe even better Chantry. Or Cassandra? Practical, stubborn, honorable and honest, she would keep what worked and remove what didn’t.

Hours had been spent on her knees, Chanting, begging the Maker for an answer. The wrong choice and she might destroy the institution of her faith, one of the few comforts she’d had in the Circle, the last imprint her family had made on her. And if she chose right, she might save what was worth saving, restore what could be restored, fix what was broken, and keep those who followed the Maker’s path, on it.

It was way too much for one person.

But in the end, at Mother Giselle’s insistence, she gave an answer. Cassandra. She wrote letters to each Chantry Mother, to the newly selected Grand Cleric, and other members of rank that Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was their best hope for “reforming and restoring the true glory and greatness of our Lady’s church.” She had written it enough times to know it by heart.

“If you truly don’t want to be Divine, Cassandra,” Genevieve took comfort in the gentle press of the Seeker’s hand. “Then I will write a statement claiming I was wrong,”

In the end, Genevieve believed that Cassandra was the best choice. That this was all providence, just as the mark falling to her had been providence, so was Divine Victoria’s ascension to the Sunburst Throne. She had to believe that.

“No.” Cassandra shook her head with great vehemence. Genevieve had offered several times to recant her endorsement, but the Seeker always refused. “This is meant to be,” she let go of Genevieve’s hand. “You are the Inquisitor and soon to be the Right Hand of the Divine; you will be my ally, my friend. The Maker urged us to the righteous path of duty, and we will follow, as we always have.”

Genevieve nodded, but she had to wonder if that was truly all her life would ever be. Paperwork, war, more paperwork, impressing nobles, battle, etcetera. She wanted more. She wanted a family with Blackwall, something she had never dreamed of having before. She wanted to work in her garden, ride her dracolisk up and down the coast without having to worry about Venatori, and a million other things that _duty_ got in the way of.

“I wanted to discuss a matter with you before I return to Mother Delphine,” Cassandra set aside her empty plate and placed her hands on the table.

“Of course,” Genevieve wiped her mouth and stacked her plate with Cassandra’s.

“I wish to reinstate the Circle of Magi.”

Genevieve tried to keep the frown from her face, but she couldn’t do it. She shook her head. “You know how I feel about it; it does not work for everyone. Self-regulation is the answer,”

“I know, I was—I meant that I want to reinstate it but I want to make it work this time. I want the Templars and the mages to work together from now on.”

Genevieve knew that it was more than possible for Templars and mages to work together. Her brother Derrek had been a Templar; he had protected her while in the Circle at Ostwick. And Ser Marbrand was a Templar and a loyal, brave, and true knight. There was Cullen of course, and the Inquisition took in any Templar who needed shelter during the war against Corypheus and the Red Templars.

“You would have to change the Chantry’s stance on magic, a monumental task, even for you.” Genevieve finally said after a good amount of thinking. “The people must learn that magic is like a sword. In the right hands it saves lives and in the wrong it destroys them.”

Cassandra nodded and Genevieve wasn’t sure if she agreed or simply understood what she meant. “I would model it after you; the mages who join will learn to serve the people as the Maker commands, but by learning the healing arts, joining with the Templars, the Seekers, and the Inquisition as warriors.”

This idea of Cassandra’s sounded much better than the original Circle. “A healer in ever Chantry; mages to aide in battle. Equals instead of prisoners.”

“ _Exactly!_ ” Cassandra exclaimed, suddenly excited.

“I like this idea, it could work.” Genevieve knew it would take a lot of finesse and hard work to make the rest of the Chantry conform but in the end it just might work.

“And I would like you to be named Grand Enchanter,”

Genevieve froze, stunned. “You want me to be Inquisitor, Right Hand, _and_ Grand Enchanter?”

“Well I want the Right Hand to be the mage hand of the Divine and the Left Hand to be the Seeker or Templar hand. But if that is how you see it, then I suppose—” she stopped, a frown etched across her face.

“That’s a lot of power for one person, don’t you think?” Genevieve couldn’t possible conceive how much influence she would be in control of. She already commanded a force to rival the Anderfels, but to make her the Right Hand _and_ Grand Enchanter. That added a force a mages under her control and the authority to speak with the Divine’s voice. Too much for one person, and she felt the Inquisition was already too much.

“I don’t expect you to answer right away,” Cassandra insisted. “I just want you to think about it.” She rose and put her hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “I fear what might happen to this world without you, Inquisitor. The Maker chose well; he sees your heart, he knows you would never break an oath, forswear a friend, or harm the innocent. It's a lot of power, but in your hands it would be used for good.” And she left.

Genevieve sat in silence. Already she could hear them—the demons. Their voices pricking at her thoughts like needles. She resisted them every day. Usually she didn’t even let them whisper so loudly. It was her habit to drown them out whenever she could. But now they sang tempting songs. Words that hurt and words the comforted. Promises to take the burdens from her shoulders, promises of black-haired children clinging to her skirts…

_So much power._

And all she had to do was say yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, due to the size of this story there will be one update a week. I have taken this story and broken it into three "parts." They will all be uploaded to this story, but when I come to the "end" of "part one" I will be taking a two to three week break (I'll let you guys know how it works out) so that I can compile, edit, tune, etc. in order to ensure the best story possible. Remember, I pre-write everything before I release it so as to maximize editing and fine tuning and all the extra stuff I do. You can expect that there will be a consistent update time.
> 
> Thanks guys, comments, kudos, are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter III: Blackwall

**Chapter III – Blackwall**

Ser Marbrand asked forgiveness when he entered the Inquisitor’s quarters— _their quarters_ —to inform them that a bird had come from the pass. A week since Varric has received his note and already the Prince was at their doorstep. When the knight was gone, Genevieve rose wordlessly from the bed.

It was not quite daybreak but some light was cresting the mountains. He could see her outlined in silver, he saw her shoulder stiffen, the soft lines of her body straighten with the inevitable stress the day was bound to bring. She washed her face in a basin by the hearth, slipped out of her night clothes, and searched through her armoire for something to wear.

“Wear the blue one,” Blackwall grunted, forcing himself up. “If the Prince is disagreeable then win him over with beauty and charm. I’ve seen you do it before,” she turned to him, he couldn’t see her smile, but he hoped she was.

“He is a married man,” she muttered, taking the blue dress from the armoire. “I doubt he’d so easily fall for the Inquisitor’s feminine wiles. And besides, I am taken.”

Blackwall gave a throaty chuckle. He cupped her face and pressed his cheek to hers. “Aye, well taken.”

He felt her smile. “The Prince probably won’t arrive until the afternoon. We should have time before we need to fancy up,”

Blackwall nodded and dressed in an old tunic. He escorted her down to the main hall where an early breakfast was being served. Two were missing from their table; Vivienne had returned to Val Royeaux and Solas had disappeared. Soon there would be more empty seats. For the past few weeks Dorian had been discussing his return to Tevinter and Cassandra would take her place as Divine. He knew how sad it made Genevieve to see the empty places and to know that one day it might be just them.

Sera might stay, and Bull would keep his Chargers on retainer. But with the breach healed it was time for normality to return to Thedas, and that meant their friends would return to their lives.

Genevieve took her usual place at the center of the table, Blackwall opposite her. Cassandra never came, but Varric, Sera, Bull, and Dorian joined them. The Advisors arrived last and Josephine waited patiently for Dorian and Genevieve to finish discussing his inevitable return to his homeland before she said anything about the Prince.

“Of course I understand Dorian,” Genevieve was saying. But just because she understood didn’t mean she liked it. Dorian had become one of her best and truest friends, Blackwall had even put aside his differences with the mage at her behest. “I just worry that your association with the Inquisition could get you hurt,”

“I know, coz, but I can take care of myself, you know that. There are people in Tevinter who feel as I do, I won’t be without friends,” he buttered a slab of toast and took a very polite bite.

Genevieve nodded and sighed. “Perhaps when the Venatori are out of the South it will be time to turn the Inquisition towards Tevinter?” One of Genevieve’s first ordinances as Inquisitor had been to help root slavers out of the South. She’s enacted harsh punishments for slavers; death was often one of them. And it was pissing the Vint’s off. They never came out and said anything about it, but there were politely, well-masked threats. Blackwall couldn’t tell if it was because they were piss scared of attacking the Inquisition, or is they expected it to go away with due time. They would be sorely disappointed, Blackwall imagined.

Blackwall thought, that for her all her sweetness she was _the Inquisitor._ Law and order incarnate. With a long memory. Evil rarely escaped her notice, and with a spymaster like Leliana, even those things she hadn’t witnessed were rooted out, judgments were made, and punishments passed down.

“I am sure there will be no need for that,” Dorian chuckled, making light of a serious matter. “But I assure you, Inquisitor dear, should I need a blunt instrument in which to beat them into understanding, I will naturally, ask you.”

“I thought I was your blunt instrument? Beating Tevinter bastards into pulp is my favorite pastime,” Bull grunted. It was a joke despite his annoyed tone.

Genevieve smirked and laughed softly. “I’m not going to argue with that.”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to get any blood on your pretty dress, boss,”

“Well thank you Bull,” Genevieve turned to Josephine. “Now then, onto business.”

Blackwall saw no need to help with the planning of dinner and he had a few chores he wanted to finish before the Prince arrived. He excused himself from the table and headed out to the barn. Cullen had finally gotten around to assigning men to fixing up the south tower; Blackwall was helping the carpenters with it.

After collecting his tools he made his way up to the tower. He had promised to measure for the rafters and the door. When this tower was done it would look over the mountains. There was still a dispute as to what it would be used for. Genevieve had given a tower to the Templars that had joined the Inquisition and the mages had been very unhappy with that. Blackwall wondered if she would turn this tower over to the remaining mages or if it would be turned into a regular watchtower.

“Ah, good morning Serah Blackwall,” one of the carpenters greeted.

“Morning,” Blackwall nodded. He observed the tower, the stone masons had done good work on the base, but the tower needed rafters and a place for the second floor. “Is there a ladder?” he asked.

“Of course,” the man pointed into the tower. Sure enough a ladder was leaned against the stone awaiting use.

Blackwall finished up his work by midday. News came back from the pass that he Prince wouldn’t arrive until evening so he had plenty of time to tackle a few more chores; the squeaky door in the main hall, a loose floor board in the library, and a shelf that needed replacing in the little alcove turned closet just off the great hall.

As he was working on taking measurements for the broken shelf, Cassandra came barreling into the room, she slammed the door behind herself. She didn’t notice him for a few seconds.

“Seek—er, Most Holy?” Blackwall frowned. She looked out of breath and angry.

They locked eyes. Cassandra placed her finger to her lips and pressed her ear to the door. Blackwall froze, confused, and listened for whatever it was the Divine was trying to hear. He heard a few muffled voices. When the voices drew closer Cassandra went and hid behind the dusty desk they hadn’t moved out of the closet yet.

The door opened and the Chantry Mother—Blackwall couldn’t quite remember her name but he knew she wasn’t very liked around Skyhold—opened the door. “Oh,” she muttered, surprised. “Hello child,” she smiled sweetly. “Have you seen our dear Divine?”

Blackwall shook his head. Cassandra was not a woman who hid; she faced her problems head on. So there was probably a good reason why she was hiding from the Mother and he wasn’t going to be the one to rat her out. She already wasn’t fond of him; there was no reason to make her dislike him more.

“No, Mother,” Blackwall said, part of him hated that he was good at lying. “Perhaps she’s gotten lost? Skyhold is a very big place,”

The Mother nodded. “Yes, of course child. Thank you,” She left, closing the door with a slam.

“She’s gone,” Blackwall said after a while. He wasn’t sure what to make of all this.

Cassandra stood up and brushed off her tunic. “Thank you,” she muttered.

Blackwall nodded. “May I ask what that was about?”

“I am going to have _that cow_ stationed to the deepest, darkest, reaches of Thedas when I am crowned. Someplace so out of sight that I will never have to think of her again.”

Blackwall simply nodded. “I don’t think you can hide from her forever, Most Holy.”

“ _Seeker_ ,” she corrected. “I am not Divine yet. And I can certainly try. She has been hounding me every day—quizzing me on my knowledge of the Chant, on my understanding of the ‘traditional values or the Chantry,’ she insults the Inquisition and the Inquisitor at every turn,” she pounded her right fist into her left palm. “I just want to hit something! Every time I go to the training yard she finds me! I rarely have a moment’s peace.” She took a deep breath and turned to Blackwall. “Thank you for listening,”

Blackwall nodded, still confused. It was very unlike the Seeker to confide in him, that was usually Genevieve’s job.

“The Inquisitor has been unusually distant. I believe she is worried about the Prince’s arrival. Still, I believe I should try the Inquisitor’s quarters, she’s always willing to hide me.” Blackwall had no doubt about that. Had the two women been raised together he could only imagine the trouble they would have gotten into. The Seeker left after making Blackwall check and see if the coast was clear.

Blackwall finished up his work in the closet and went to get himself ready for Prince Vael’s arrival. After a bath he headed up to the Inquisitor’s quarters. He found the room full of more people than he was used to.

Sera and Cassandra were sitting near the desk watching as Genevieve and the Chantry Mother argued in soft, polite, yet acidic tones.

“I assure you, Mother,” Genevieve was saying. “That this is the best place for Most Holy to work. It’s quiet, secluded. I will assure she writes her sermon.”

“I must insist that—”

Genevieve frowned and shook her head. “She’ll work here,” she used her Inquisitor voice this time. This did not please the Chantry hen. She snorted irritably, but said nothing else and rushed off past Blackwall and down the stairs. Cassandra stood up.

“Maker, thank you,” she exclaimed. “I thought that woman was going to hang over my shoulder and watch my every move.”

Genevieve smiled. “Oh don’t worry about that, she’ll lord over you in the chapel tonight.” She took Blackwall’s hand and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Blackwall wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but the disgusted look on Cassandra’s face made him chuckle. “And what are you ladies going on about?” he asked.

“Shite for brains think’s it’s uncouth for a knifey-ear like me to be around the holy of whatever.” Sera growled, she put her feet up on the desk and onto the scrap paper Cassandra was working on. Cassandra pushed the elf’s dirty feet off the desk, a disgusted look still on her lips.

“That’s part of it,” Genevieve answered, going to her desk and filling a goblet from the pitcher there. “The other part is about Most Holy’s first sermon,” She handed the goblet to Blackwall before refreshing her own.

Blackwall was surprised that it was strong Ferelden ale and not wine or water. An unusual choice considering Genevieve preferred sweet wines and teas.

“That cow insists that it be about something traditional,” Cassandra growled then took a sip from her drink. “She wants me to focus on Transfigurations 1:2; no doubt she thinks it is some clever insult to the Inquisitor,”

Blackwall nodded and Genevieve took her seat at the desk. “So Cassandra is going to write her sermon here. Josephine and I thought, since the Prince is so pious, that he may like to partake in a private service.”

“And after, you lot are all coming down to the tavern because I’m tired of seeing mopey-dopey looks on everyone’s faces!” Sera jumped up in her seat. “We’re dancing and drinking and no one is getting out of it or I’ll shoot you full of arrows!”

“We’ll have to see, Sera,” Genevieve said, taking up her quill. “I have to entertain the Prince after all.”

Sera shook her head and sneered. “Tell your fancy-pants prince to go to bed,”

Blackwall held a smirk back when Genevieve rolled her eyes. Sera climbed down off her chair, finished her ale in a long gulp and turned to Blackwall. “I’m leaving it to you, Beardy,” she winked. “’sides, something’s bothering the Inquisitor,”

Genevieve did not even bother to look up from her work. “I already told you, Sera, I’m fine.”

Sera gave Blackwall’s sleeve a tug and shook her head before starting for the stair well. “If you don’t come down to the tavern tonight I’m going to embarrass you in front of your princey,”

Blackwall took note of the small, amused smile that came to the Inquisitor’s face. But there was nothing else; no smart quip, no joking promise of banishment. He frowned and took the seat Sera had been occupying.

Even though Cassandra was sitting across from him, Blackwall reached over and took Genevieve’s hand. She stopped and looked at him, a gentle quirk playing at her lips. She was about to say something so he reached over and kissed her mouth before the words could form. When he pulled away they chuckled to find Cassandra looking them, a strange but only slightly offended look on her face.

“You should go to the tavern tonight,” she told him. “I might not be able to escape my duties, but I don’t want you to be left out.”

Blackwall shook his head. “No, little bird, I won’t go without you,” he let go of her hand so he could trace her jaw. Now that Sera had brought it to his attention he could see the darkening shadows under her eyes, the almost sick looking paleness of her skin, and the slight sag of her shoulders. The signs of stress were there. He wondered if maybe she was getting sick.

 _She can’t be that worried about Lady Hawke, can she?_ He wondered. It wasn’t the exact same worry that had dogged her through the war with Corypheus, but there was something bothering her.

“Is your mark paining you, my lady?” he asked, with most of the rifts closed it didn’t get much use anymore. No one was sure what not using the mark might do to her, and even she admitted she wasn’t sure if the pain she sometimes felt was real or imagined.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“Do you need a tonic? Is the lyrium getting to you?”

It seemed so long ago when he left her naked in the barn to face his fate for his crimes against the Callier family. To find him she had used enough lyrium to keep a Templar happy for three months. Even though mages didn’t get addicted to lyrium the same way that non-mages did, it had still taken a toll on her body and she had spent months working off the addiction with her own specially made tonic.

She shook her head, slightly amused. “I haven’t felt the need in a long time, love.”

Blackwall leaned back in his seat, he wasn’t quite convinced she was fine but he didn’t want to irritate her with all his questions. Instead he said; “I would like it if you managed to excuse yourself from the Prince’s company tonight and came down to the tavern,”

Once again, Genevieve shook her head. “I don’t know,”

Cassandra threw in her two coppers; “When Leliana and I were searching for Hawke we did a lot of uncovering on her husband. Sebastian Vael may be a pious man now but he was quite the degenerate before becoming a brother in the Chantry. He may enjoy a little tavern frivolity,”

Blackwall chuckled and Genevieve cleared her throat; “I am not going to take _the_ _Prince_ of Starkhaven to a party in a tavern being thrown by Sera. Maker bless her soul, but it’s _Sera_.”

“Just a thought,” Cassandra smirked.

“Less thinking, more sermonizing.” Genevieve took a sip of her ale and got back to work. Blackwall rose from his chair. “Ser Marbrand and Ser Brandon are on duty tonight; you really should enjoy yourself,”

Blackwall nodded, although he doubted that Sera would let him get away with not bringing her. “I was planning on seeing the Prince,” Blackwall explained. “But if you’d prefer me in the tavern then I’ll do that.”

“Well,” the Inquisitor laughed nervously. “I’d prefer you with me, but it will be boring and formal so…argh, now I don’t want to go.”

Blackwall chuckled and came around her desk to place his hands on her shoulders. He rubbed at a knot at the base of her neck but she was wound so tight it would take hours to rub the tension from her shoulders. “I think I can handle it, I don’t see why your knights don’t deserve a little time off.”

“Oh, very well, if you want.”

Blackwall nodded and went find his nicest armor and change. When he came back Genevieve was reading through Cassandra’s sermon. Blackwall took a seat by the hearth so they two ladies could work without his hovering and within the hour Ser Marbrand came up to inform the Inquisitor that the Prince was in the valley.

“Thank you, ser,” Genevieve rose from her chair. “And you and Ser Brandon may take some personal time tonight; Serah Blackwall has offered to be my guard for the rest of the day.”

Marbrand nodded and left them with a gentle bow. “Thank you, your Worship.”

Genevieve turned to Cassandra as Blackwall offered her his arm. “I don’t think Mother Delphine will bother you here, stay as long as you need.”

Cassandra nodded. “Thank you, Inquisitor,”

Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana were waiting in the main hall. Genevieve greeted them and Josephine quickly went through the night’s schedule. “Very good,” the Inquisitor remarked when the ambassador finished. She smoothed out her dress before fussing with her short hair.

Blackwall took her hand and kissed her palm. “You look fine,” he told her, she smirked and gave him a light kiss on the cheek.

“Alright then, let’s entertain a Prince,” Genevieve took Blackwall’s arm and he guided her to the keep stairs.

They didn’t wait very long for the Prince of Starkhaven to arrive. He came up the bridge mounted on a white stallion, a grey cloak around his shoulders covering beautifully white enameled armor trimmed in blue and gold. Beside him, on Prince Sebastian’s right, rode Lady Moraven, the archer who had visited Skyhold for the Inquisitor’s Tourney only a few months ago. She too was dressed in white and gold, a bow strapped to her back, and a quiver of arrows fletched in goose feathers rested at her hip. To the Prince’s left was his bannerman, where the theme of white armor continued.

It was all rather pretentious, if you asked Blackwall.

They had been escorted by ten of the Inquisition’s finest. The men dismounted, their captain hiking quickly up the stairs to hand a report to Cullen. The Prince and Lady Moraven dismounted, and handed their reins to the nearest groom.

The Prince came up the stairs, Moraven behind him. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, showing off a plain bow of yew and a quiver full of white arrows. His hair was the color auburn and slicked back at the top of his head, he wore a short beard, and his eyes were so blue, Blackwall considered that maybe magic was involved.

Genevieve stepped up to greet him with a curtsy, but before she could he bowed low at the waist.

“Your Worship, it is an honor to meet the Herald of Andraste,” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “And the savoir of Thedas.”

Having grown up in Markham and spending many years traveling through the Free Marches, Blackwall was familiar with the Starkhaven burr. It brought back memories of ostentatious Starkhaven travelers. And this one was a Prince; he could only wonder what kind of boot-licking, sucking-up pompous nonsense he would bring into the keep.

“Likewise, your Highness,” Genevieve smiled sweetly and finished her curtsy. “And good to see you again, Lady Moraven,”

“Yes, your Worship.” Moraven bowed. “It’s an honor to see you again, Inquisitor, and to see that you are well from the last time I saw you,” Moraven had shared the tourney archery competition’s purse with Sera. She had offered her help to Cullen after the Inquisitor had almost been assassinated during the tourney.

“May I introduce you to my esteemed advisors, Lady Josephine Montilyet, Sister Leliana, and Commander Cullen,”

The Prince kissed the lady’s hands and shook Cullen’s while offering; “Good to see you again, Ser.”

“I am sure you are exhausted, your Highness,” Genevieve guided them into the main hall, Blackwall followed respectfully behind with Lady Moraven.

“Serah Blackwall,” Moraven did not seem like the kind of woman who smiled. She was all seriousness. She had her brown hair kept in a tight bun and her cloak wrapped around her boisterous white armor. Blackwall hadn’t had much of a chance to speak with her the last time she had come to Skyhold, but he had a healthy respect for the First Bow of Starkhaven. “How do you fair then?”

“Well,” Blackwall answered. “And you?”

“Decent enough,” the archer answered. “Though I am anxious about my Princess. The Prince does not show it, but he is worried out of his mind.”

“He must truly miss his lady wife.” Blackwall observed.

“Miss? Hah,” Moraven shook her head. “He is terrified of what might have befallen her; the Princess is a…a very special woman. She does as she pleases, which would not bother anyone if she were willing to stay in one place. She snuck out of Starkhaven, Serah, _snuck_.”

“Did your Prince try locking her up?” It was joke.

By the First Bow’s answer, he couldn’t tell if she had taken it seriously or not; “The Princess is a free spirit; my Prince knows that, he would have gone with her if she had bothered to ask,” She sighed and added quietly; “They love each other; I could tell from the moment he brought her to Starkhaven. The Princess is the kind of lady who wants to help—always wants to help—and the Prince thinks she’s done enough for the world.”

Blackwall nodded. He’d only met Hawke a few times, but she did give off that kind if vibe. “What will happen if she is dead?”

He could tell that Morven didn’t like speaking of it. “Starkhaven will find out who or what did it and if we must, Starkhaven will go to war. Though I hope it does not come to that.”

If she had anything further to say then she was stopped. The Prince called her over and ordered her to ride back down to the valley and inform the men to make camp at the other side of the river and away from the Village of Skyhold. The archer nodded and excused herself.

Blackwall fell back behind Genevieve.

“We had a room made up for you, your Highness,” Genevieve told the Prince. “If you want to freshen up before Chant.”

The Prince nodded. “Yes, and I would like to speak with Varric as soon as I can.”

“I’ll have him informed immediately,”

The welcome group broke up then and Genevieve sighed with relief when the Prince went up to his room. With the Prince absent, Blackwall was free to go to her.

“Getting tired already?” he teased, pushing a little bit of hair behind her ear.

She sighed again and sat down in a chair near the hearth Varric liked to sit by. Josephine went to find a servant who would fetch the dwarf, Cullen went to file away the report he’d been given earlier, and Leliana left without a word.

Alone now, Blackwall brought up Sera’s party.

Genevieve rolled her eyes and shook her head. “We’ll see,” she told him, yet again. Blackwall frowned; a foul mood was settling in on her, he could tell by the way she carried herself. He took her hand in his and kissed every finger. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but he knew how she got when people fussed over her.

He would watch her; keep tabs on her shifting mood. If it continued he would be forced to say something about it. But for now, he would let her be. Touches and sweet words and kisses might turn her mood anyway.

XXXX

For someone who had never given an actual sermon before, Blackwall found himself impressed by the Divine-Elect’s lesson. Through the whole service, Genevieve gave Cassandra encouraging nods and smiles and Blackwall noticed that the Prince seemed to enjoy the sermon. He expressed as much during dinner, heaping praise on Cassandra, who took it with more grace than Blackwall gave her credit for.

Josephine had made sure that there were Starkhaven foods on the menu alongside roasted chicken and buttered vegetables. That meant lamprey pie and haggis. To Blackwall’s amusement, Genevieve took one look at the haggis and looked away, her face turning slightly green. He would have laughed had they not had company.

Blackwall stood at the end of the hall, watching, listening to snippets of pleasant, albeit slightly uneasy conversation. The Prince seemed unready to broach the subject of his missing wife, and Genevieve wanted to get down to business as soon as possible. It was Josephine who came to the rescue and promised that business would be dealt with early tomorrow morning. And the ice finally broke when Genevieve asked the Prince about his homeland.

“Being a mage, I was never afforded an opportunity to visit Starkhaven,” she began.

The Prince took it from there, “It’s a beautiful place, rolling hills, mountains in the distance, the Minantar glitters like silver glass during a good sunset.” He smiled. “I’m not doing it justice, your Worship; it’s a place that must be seen.”

“I would love to see it,” Genevieve levied a quick glance at Blackwall; _you’ll take me there some day, won’t you?_ Words didn’t have to be said for him to understand. He would take her anywhere in the world if she wanted. He could deny her nothing.

As supper wrapped up, the plates were cleared away and Genevieve offered the Prince a glass of brandy before bed. But the Prince shook his head.

“I am afraid, your Worship, that I have not had a drink since I was a lad; my rakish days are done, even though I’m Prince of Starkhaven I keep up some of the habits from my days as a brother.”

Genevieve nodded respectfully. “Of course, your Highness. Then perhaps to the garden for a little more tea?”

Blackwall was practically praying the man say no. Genevieve deserved to spend a bit of time with her friends. It came as a relief when the Prince claimed the ride to Skyhold was long and exhausting and he wanted to retire to bed.

Genevieve asked once more, just to be sure. When he rebuffed her a second time she yielded and the Prince went up to his room. With a sigh Blackwall marched to her side and asked her to come down to the tavern.

“For a little while, at least,” he nearly begged.

She smiled, looked at Cassandra, and asked if she would come too. The Divine thought about it for a moment and the nodded. “I think a drink is in order,”

“Then I guess we’re going,” Genevieve smirked as Blackwall placed a kiss on her forehead. They changed into more comfortable clothes before he escorted her down to the tavern. Music was already playing and the tavern was hot and stuffy.

As all get-togethers at the Herald’s Rest went, everyone in the keep was invited. There were drinks and plenty of food and much of the floor had been cleared away for dancing. Sera greeted them when they came through the door. “Princy get tired, yeah?” she asked joyfully.

Dorian and Bull we’re sitting in a corner, drinking and laughing with some of the Chargers; Cole was quietly watching the festivities from the second floor, his feet hanging off the edge; and Varric was telling a story near the bar, his voice rising above the music.

“Yes,” Genevieve answered. “Now I need a drink before I get any dancing done, what do you say love?”

Blackwall nodded. “Right away,” he made for the bar and ordered himself an ale but before he could ask for Genevieve’s usual wine, she stopped him.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she told the dwarven barkeep.

Blackwall put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure, it isn’t watered.”

“Yes,” Genevieve smiled and when their drinks arrived she took a long sip. “I drink with Bull, you know,” she told him as if he didn’t know. Although after she took her third swallow, he saw her pop one of her sweet peppermint candies into her mouth.

Blackwall always preferred to watch the merriment and drink, and he was more than content to sit and sip his ale with his arm around his lady’s waist, but Sera pulled the Inquisitor off to the dance floor. They danced together until Dorian asked for a chance and even Varric took a break from his story telling to dance with Genevieve and Sera.

Already, Blackwall could see the weight hanging over the Inquisitor begin to dissipate, if only temporarily. Being Inquisitor had always been a heavy burden for her, but this was different from her usual leadership worries it seemed. It bothered him. The way she looked like she was somewhere else, as if her body was present but her mind dwelled in another place.

With a huff, Blackwall pulled himself out of his chair and decided he wanted to dance because he rarely ever did and it would please her to share a dance. Sera was not too happy to give up her dance partner, but handed him Genevieve’s hand anyway. The song the minstrel sung was slow and gentle. Blackwall led the dance, but only barely. It was so informal he couldn’t figure out where to put his feet and Genevieve seemed uninterested in following any set pattern. They let the music carry them.

But when the singer began to thrum the tune to _Sera Never Was_ , Sera pulled Genevieve away and they danced and sung to that with the tavern goers clapping and laughing along. Blackwall could not help but smile and join in a few lines of the song; it was helping them all heal. The war with Corypheus had taken a toll on the world, and this was just a bit of medicine, at least for this little corner of Thedas.

Suddenly, Varric cried out; “Over here, Choir-Boy, I saved you a seat!”

Genevieve stopped her wild dance and turned to see the Prince, dressed in a plain tunic and breeches; walking swiftly to the table Varric had been keeping near the bar. Varric then called Genevieve over, Blackwall followed.

“I invited him to play a few rounds of wicked grace,” Varric explained as they approached. “We used to do it all the time back in Kirkwall.”

The Prince pulled up a seat, an almost out-of-place look on his face. Blackwall pulled a chair for Genevieve and sat down beside her. When offered a drink the Prince took water but he happily poured the Inquisitor an ale from a pitcher at the end of the table.

Genevieve cleared her throat. “I am sorry, your Highness, I probably—”

The Prince smiled. “I must say, your Worship, that seeing you spend time with your people is heartening.”

Blackwall saw the touch of a grin come to her lips; “Thank you, your Highness.”

Varric chuckled and called the rest of the Inner Circle over. Introductions were made, cards passed out, bets stacked up at the center of the table, and Bull made sure everyone had a drink, although he couldn’t convince the Prince to ditch his water.

The night wore on, tankards were emptied and filled. Sera won the first round and the Prince the second. By the third hand, Blackwall helped himself to his fourth tankard. Genevieve was leaning against his shoulder too far into her drink to care about decorum. And when the Prince asked, she was honest.

“Serah Blackwall and I are involved,” she explained, her speech only slightly slurred. Blackwall nodded, trying to remember the last time she’d had too much to drink and hoping she wouldn’t regret telling Prince Vael in the morning. But the topic was dropped because Cole wanted to know if anyone had any good stories. Varric obliged him with a hilarious story of a card game that nearly cost Hawke her life.

He ended it with; “And that, my friends, is why you _never_ bet against the hero!” The table burst into laughter and a seventh hand was passed around.

It was very late when Genevieve rose from her seat; she was slightly unsteady on her feet. Blackwall jumped up, equally tipsy and grabbed her elbow to keep her from falling over. She giggled and excused them. The Prince remained to play another round of cards and he bid them a very cordial goodnight.

Blackwall kept her steady as they hiked up the keep stairs. “Oh Maker,” she giggled, nearly tripping over her dress. “I’ve indulged too much,”

“I’ve got you, my lady,” Blackwall opened the door to their rooms, Ser Marbrand was on duty.

“Good night, Ser,” Genevieve slurred at the Templar and Blackwall finally decided it would be easier to carry her. She laughed and flung her arms over his shoulders, she kissed him once he got the door closed and her fingers started working on the buttons of his tunic.

Blackwall set her on the bed and they were undressing each other in-between wild kisses. The alcohol had gone to their heads and Blackwall figured they might regret the party tomorrow when their hangovers set in, but desire and alcohol made a heady cocktail. The passion was no less fierce—despite the liquor, he knew it was love and trust that drove them. Although even through the haze of strong drink and lust he still sensed that part of her was somewhere else. That maybe their lovemaking had become a distraction from whatever problem had reared its ugly head?

He didn’t want to think that. He hoped it was just the drink.

Genevieve set her head on his shoulder and was asleep in minutes. Blackwall wrapped his arms around her, hoping that the night had given her a little comfort from whatever stress had dogged her. It was all he could hope for.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, more interesting chapters are on the way!


	4. Chapter IV: The Inquisitor

**Chapter IV – The Inquisitor**

The Inquisitor sat up, suddenly awake. It was still dark; the sun had yet to reach over the mountains. Feeling a terrible heat course through her, she threw the blankets off and climbed out of bed. Blackwall was still fast asleep, one arm thrown carelessly over his head, the other completely unaware that she had left the warmth and safety of his embrace. 

Naked and fighting a night sweat, she padded over to the balcony doors, opened one, and stood in the doorway to let the cool night air ease the heat from her bones. The sky was clear, the stars bright, and the moon big and round like an egg.

It was a pretty night, marred only by the pounding in her head and the sickly-sweet taste in her mouth. _Too much ale_ , she thought as she tried to rub the ache from her temples. _And all done in front of the Prince, Josephine is not going to be happy._ But where that line of thought might go was interrupted by a noise she had not heard since the final confrontation with the Elder One.

“A dragon?” she asked the empty air.

Blackwall stirred. “What?” he grunted. “What is it?”

Genevieve rummaged around for a nightshirt and her robe. “I could have sworn I heard a dragon,” she told him, dressing quickly.

The moon illuminated the bed; she could see the sleep and hangover in Blackwall’s eyes. He smoothed his ruffled beard. “A dream. Come back to bed, little bird,”

Genevieve shook her head. “I’m going to look,”

She heard him sigh and get to his feet. He was searching for a pair of pants when another roar resonated through the keep, this time so loud Genevieve felt it though the stone and up her bare feet to her skull.

“Believe me now?” She grumbled, headache pounding.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall growled, pulling his pants on. “That’s not good,”

Together they went out onto the balcony. Below, an alarm was ringing; Genevieve spotted guardsmen running along the walls, their heads turned upward. She and Blackwall looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the beast. There was no telling if it was going to attack Skyhold or the village in the valley.

Finally, after a few long, tense minutes of waiting and listening, the dragon passed over the mountains, its shadow dragging across the moon. Genevieve could not tell the type, but it was most definitely a high dragon. She breathed a sigh of relief; it was too far away to pose an immediate threat.

Still, she watched it soar around the mountains. She hoped it would just fly off, disappear into the dark and never be seen near Skyhold again. The dragon dipped below a high ridge and was out of sight.

“I best speak with Cullen,” she sighed after a minute of waiting to see if the beast would turn around and make another pass. It would be time to get up anyway.

Blackwall watched quietly as she dressed into something more suitable. He offered to ensure water was sent up for a bath and she gave him a brief kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered and then headed for the main hall.

Ser Brandon had relieved Ser Marband in the night. The ex-Templar followed after her, ever the loyal watchman. Cullen and Leliana were already in the main hall, Cullen’s second-in-command with him and Scout Harding standing beside Leliana.

“Please tell me it didn’t snatch up any villagers while I was sleeping,” Genevieve grumbled, the painful heat from before was gone and now replaced with a chill.

“No, your Worship,” the captain answered. “It didn’t get close enough to the valley to be a real threat.”

“ _It’s a dragon_ ,” Harding snorted.

“No one has been hurt, Inquisitor,” Leliana said. She was dressed in her normal uniform and Genevieve found herself wondering, as she often did, if her spymaster ever actually slept.

“Good,” Genevieve sighed, her head hurt and she needed something to eat. “It’s still worrisome though,”

Cullen agreed. “Shall I send trackers and a hunting party?”

“I can have one ready to go by dawn, Worship.” The captain added.

Genevieve shook her head. “I’m not going to throw troops at it and hope for the best.”

“If you’d like Inquisitor, I could track it and see what it’s up too,” Harding suggested. “Me and two others could easily follow any trail it might leave,”

That had more appeal, if the dragon was simply passing through then it could leave unharmed. If it took up a nest then they would know where and it could be dealt with if the need arose.

“Yes, do that,”

Leliana shook her head. “I’ll need you Harding, send Niles in your place and two others with him.”

“Yes, Sister.” Harding and the Captain bowed and left them.

Genevieve turned to her advisors and sighed. “Send for me when the Prince wakes, I need a bath and something to eat before our meeting.”

Leliana smirked; “And a headache tonic I assume, Josie will not be happy when she hears you overindulged before the Prince of Starkhaven.”

“Josephine won’t know unless a certain spymaster tells her and if that happens _that_ certain spymaster may be out of a job,” Genevieve barked, she was too exhausted and annoyed for jokes today.

Leliana’s smirk died on her lips. “Forgive me, Inquisitor, I did not mean—”

“No,” Genevieve turned, feeling very suddenly ashamed of herself. Her temper had been getting a little out of hand lately. “I didn’t mean to snap. Forgive me,” she headed back for her rooms and thought a headache tonic and a bath was just what she needed.

True to his word, Blackwall had called for water to be brought up. Two servants were filling the tub, another was making the bed, and Blackwall was standing on the balcony watching the sky.

“Will that be everything, your Worship?” the eldest one, an elven matron with soft features asked as Genevieve went to her desk.

“Oh yes, thank you,” Genevieve answered. When they were gone she got to work crafting something for her hangover. She felt that today called for something a bit more potent and used royal elfroot and fresh peppermint mixed with water.

Blackwall came back in and gratefully accepted one of her tonics. “Do you want some tea, my lady?” he asked setting his tonic down and taking wood from a basket by the hearth.

“Please,” Genevieve moaned and rubbed her temples. Just speaking hurt. She was thankful that dawn had yet to arrive, she wasn’t sure she would be able to stand the brightness.

As Blackwall made her tea, she put a few drops of lavender oil in the bathwater all the while sipping at her potion. She pulled the privacy screen in a half moon around the washtub. Blackwall brought her a cup of tea and told her he was going to see if some work needed to be done around the keep. She kissed his cheek and promised that breakfast would be sent to him.

The bathwater was hot and soothing; the scent of lavender surrounded her. Already she could feel her potion working. With dawn a little ways off, she decided to stay and soak a while in hopes that it might ease the tension from her muscles. She hadn’t even been afield in weeks and she was wound tight as a bow. An anxiousness had settled heavy in her stomach along with a slowly boiling rage. Lashing out at Leliana today hadn’t been the first time she’d done it since her talk with Cassandra. It was embarrassing and uncalled for, but she found herself doing it even when she wasn’t sure she was actually upset about things.

She knew why she was like this—she didn’t want to think about it was the problem. Things always got out of hand when she let them sit. She should have told Cassandra right off the bat that she could not be Inquisitor, and Right Hand, and Grand Enchanter all at the same time. If the demons didn’t get her first, then the stress would.

Even now she could hear them whispering just on the edge of hearing. They were all weak, low-level demons looking for scraps and hoping to get lucky. Ignoring them was best; it was giving them attention that made them stronger.

Genevieve dunked her head below the water in an attempt to drown out the hushed whispers. It didn’t work and she surfaced, gasping for air. “My Maker, know my heart,” she muttered trusting He might hear her and lift her suffering, if only a little.

With the bath water growing tepid, she finished washing and dried herself with a towel. Today felt like a tunic and breeches kind of day, if she was going to spend a few hours in the war room then she wanted to be comfortable.

With wet hair curling at the nape of her neck, the Inquisitor went down to the kitchens where she found the dwarven cook, Belinda, hard at work frying up some bacon.

“Morning, your Worship, come for a snack before breakfast-proper?”

“Something to tide me over for a bit, Belinda.”

The cook nodded and pointed to the small table where the kitchen staff took their meals. “Bread and honey on the table, fresh bacon coming up,”

“Thank you,” Genevieve cut herself a slice of bread and drizzled it with honey. Belinda brought her a few slices of bacon and piled it on top of her bread. It was more than she wanted, but she’d found out long ago that denying Belinda’s motherly desire to see her well-fed was met with immediate and harsh scorn. “Do you think you could send something out of Serah Blackwall, he said he had some chores to do,”

“Of course, can’t let your man go hungry, Inquisitor.” The dwarf smirked and sent Genevieve off with another slice of bacon.

Genevieve went back to her quarters and sat down in a chair by the hearth to eat and drink her tea. With food and tea done she would have fallen asleep in her chair had Josephine not come to rouse her.

The dawn was peaking up over the mountains and the keep was now coming fully awake as soldiers took their posts and the night watch retired. Talk of the morning’s dragon had already spread through the keep and Genevieve had no doubt that when it reached the little village below the castle that it would be exaggerated tenfold and spark some panic.

Genevieve and Josephine were the last to arrive to the war room. Chairs had been set around the war table and a long buffet table was set along the opposite wall where breakfast would be served so they could eat while they worked. Everyone, including the Prince and Varric, rose respectfully from their seats when the Inquisitor entered.

“Good morning, everyone,” Genevieve said cheerfully, she was used to making up such lies now. She took her seat at the head of the table and everyone sat back down.

“Before we begin, Inquisitor,” Cullen cleared his throat. “The stable master wants you to know that Fiend has gotten another one of the keep’s cats.”

Genevieve frowned and shook her head. Fiend was her loyal dracolisk, a beast so dastardly that it had nearly taken off her hand once and did not seem to care for anyone but her and Blackwall. She loved that beast though; the dracolisk had saved her life many times.

“He’s bored,” she explained. Now with Corypheus gone, she wasn’t the only one tired of staying in one place. “I’ll take him out and ride him, tomorrow perhaps. And I am very sorry about the cat.” This satisfied Cullen and it was on to other things.

Scouts had been sent to seek out the dragon, Cullen had decided to put a few more guards on the wall, and had Josephine sent an ambassador down into the village to inform the residents and keep them from panicking. A bird had come in last night from Val Royeaux and needed the Inquisitor’s look over, another noble wanted to visit, and more mind numbing troubles that had to be dealt with sooner, rather than later.

Finally, with other matters out of the way, the forum was handed over to the Prince and Varric.

“A story is always best from the beginning,” Varric said when the Prince had trouble deciding where to start.

Prince Vael nodded and put his finger on the spot that marked Starkhaven. “When Skylar got Varric’s letter about Corypheus she left home without a word. She sent me a letter from your keep informing me that she was with the Inquisition and intended to aid you—she blamed herself for that monster’s return.”

“We all thought that bastard was dead,” Varric growled, slamming his fist on the table. “It’s no one’s fault.”

Vael sighed. “You know our Hawke,”

“Yeah,” there was a lapse in conversation as breakfast was served. Food was passed around, but there didn’t seem to be much appetite in the room.

“She sent me another message before you took Adamant Keep,” the Prince continued. “And then Varric sent me a letter saying she was heading for the Anderfels to see the Grey Wardens at Weisshaupt Fortress.” He reached into his pocket and took out a small stack of notes, each one written on a piece of scrap parchment. “She stopped at towns and villages along the way, some were sent with merchants, others by trained ravens,” he set them on the table for Genevieve to see.

Genevieve went through them. Each was dated and began with “My Dearest Sebastian,” written in tiny, neat scrawl. The letters gave no hint of her location, but promised that she was alright and that she couldn’t wait to get home to him.

“This was the last one she sent,” Vael picked up one of the notes.

Genevieve took it and examined it. It was shorter than all the others, only a few brief lines and she had forgotten to sign it.

_I’m still fine. Ran into a little trouble, but I found some friends. I’ll be home as soon as I can._

“That was the last letter I received, four months ago.” Vael let the letters pass around the table. 

“Hawke wouldn’t just leave it like that,” Varric held up the last note. “She would have sent another unless she’s in trouble,”

Genevieve stood up and looked over the map. She drew an invisible line from Starkhaven to Skyhold, back up to Kirkwall and towards Weisshaupt. “That’s quite a long way to go.”

The Prince nodded. “I would have simply gone after her, but I feared causing an incident and I thought that maybe she had sent something to the Inquisition.”

Heads were shaken. “No, I’m sorry, your Highness.” Genevieve said. She picked up the letters and placed them in his hand.

“I see,” the Prince scratched the short beard on his face and looked visibly deflated; his last hope had been no hope at all.

Varric tapped his fingers on the table to get their attention. “That’s why; I’d like to ask, as a personal favor, that the Inquisition send someone to find Hawke. I’ll go myself if I have to.”

Genevieve sighed; she turned to Leliana. “Do you have any people in the north? I know we have people in Hossberg, could you have them check in on Weisshaupt?”

“I can send a bird immediately, Inquisitor.” The spymaster rose from her chair.

“Yes,” Genevieve looked back at the Prince. “It will take some time your Highness,”

The Prince nodded. “Yes, I understand,”

“Well, I don’t,” Varric exclaimed, he slammed his fist on the table.

“Varric,” the Prince began.

“Don’t _Varric_ me, Choir-Boy,” the dwarf growled, getting out of his chair. “It was only a short time ago when the Inquisitor was the kind of woman who jumped on her horse to save anyone who needed it. But I can see she’s gotten comfortable.” He spat, bitterly before slamming the door behind himself.

Prince Vael scrambled to apologize on Varric’s behalf. Genevieve shook her head. “It’s alright,”

“You have to do right by your people, your Worship. He should apologize for what he said.” He reached over and took her hand. His hands were calloused and rough, not the hands she expected on a prince. “Thank you for your help, I know you have a lot of work to do.”

“Lady Hawke helped the Inquisition, it would be wrong of us not to help her in return. It will take time for Leliana’s birds to reach the Anderfels and for word to return, and if I must I will send scouts and soldiers. For now, the hospitality of Skyhold is yours, your Highness.”

The prince kissed her hand and stood. “Thank you, your Worship.” He left.

Genevieve sighed in relief and rubbed her eyes. It was near noon now and there was still work to be done. Leliana returned and they got back to going through reports and other serious matters.

But the Inquisitor could hardly focus. Her thoughts kept wandering back to what Varric had said. Had she really become comfortable? She had never really considered herself the kind to charge forward without thinking—is that what he thought she did? There were a lot of people she had gone to rescue without a second thought, Blackwall came to mind. Was that what Varric was referring too? That she cared about Blackwall but not Lady Hawke?

She couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking that she was not sympathetic.

“I’m sorry,” she jumped out of her seat. The demons had suddenly grown louder thanks to Varric’s ammunition. “I need—I need a break,” she left her advisors and quickly rushed down the hall.

Ser Marbrand had replaced Brandon and he trailed quickly and silently after her. She made for the little chapel in the garden and quickly threw herself down in front of the statue of Andraste.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.” Prayer helped, prayer had always helped.

Yet why did it feel like there was a weight on her chest? Why did every breath feel like trying to breathe broken glass? Corypheus was dead; it was supposed to be simple now. Why did it feel like the walls were closing in on her?

She skipped to Transfigurations; “O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places.” The whispers were receding. “My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within your grace, touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval,”

Someone else entered the chapel. A voice as clear as day and tinged in a brogue fell in with hers. “O Maker, hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death, make me one within Your glory, and let the world once more see Your favor,” Prince Vael kneeled beside her and they continued together. “For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.”

Genevieve drew silent and finished with a private prayer of her own. The Prince rose when she did, he smiled. “Sometimes, I miss my days in the Chantry,”

“It must be strange, going from Brother to Prince,”

“Yes, but my Lady Hawke is worth it. She needed safety from Kirkwall and she deserves no less than a prince,”

“You must miss her,” it was a stupid thing to say. Of course Prince Vael missed his lady wife, just as she would miss Blackwall if he left.

“Very much so, your Worship,” the Prince sighed. “I know that you promised the warmth and comfort of you halls, Inquisitor, but I fear I cannot stay here. I must look for Skylar,” he wrung his hands. “If something were to happen to her—”

Genevieve nodded slowly. What would she do if Blackwall was out in the wilderness and had lost contact? _Heh_ , she thought amusedly, _I’d seek him wherever he went._ He had run for his death in Val Royeaux and she had gone after him like a hound on a scent. She would do it again too. The Prince had every right to go after his wife.

“You may cause an incident if you move your entourage into foreign territory.” Genevieve rubbed the back of her neck. “A small group might move quickly and quietly. Unseen and unknown even.”

“Yes,” The Prince agreed. “I was hoping you would write letters to the monarchies of Nevarra and the Anderfels, informing them of my intentions and that I mean no harm.”

She _could_ write letters; seal them with her ring, tie them to bird herself. She could do it right now, easily. _Or_ she could be the Inquisitor that Varric claimed she was. Her friend needed help, an ally was asking for aid, and she was tired of being cooped up in Skyhold.

Oh, it was such an easy choice. Such an easy, simple _or_.

Gently, she pushed the Prince into the corner of the chapel and lowered her voice. “A small group, you, Varric, myself, and Blackwall, he wouldn’t dare let me go without him. We could slip in and out unnoticed.”

“Your Worship, I—” he gaped. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t ask that of you,”

“Nonsense, you’re an ally, you asked for help.” And then she added, as an afterthought. “I need to be away from here,”

“No it’s—I can’t let you—” but he trailed off and she saw a hint of mischief glint in his icy blue eyes. Then he gave her a roguish, impish smirk. “Hawke wrote fondly of you in her letters—it would be an honor to ride alongside the Herald of Andraste.”

In soft whispers they planned a midnight escape that the Prince proclaimed would make his Hawke beam with pride. There was a tunnel under the keep newly discovered by one of Leliana’s people. Only the Inquisitor and the spymaster knew of its existence. It led out into the mountainside. Conveniently the new Chantry being constructed into the rock face was the only clear exit the tunnel opened up too. The entrance to the tunnel was through the underground stables, the perfect place to meet.

The Prince didn’t seem like the kind of man who schemed about riding away in the middle of the night on a quest, but he was quite enthusiastic about it. Genevieve had to wonder if that was some of Lady Hawke’s influence or if he had always been a rascal. The chance to plot an adventure had left them both grinning ear to ear when they left the chapel. Prince Vael—Sebastian, he insisted she call him, left to find Varric while Genevieve went to find Blackwall and pack.

XXXX

She made her way back up to her quarters. Ser Marbrand went ahead of her and opened the door to their stairwell and then followed her in. But before she could head up the stairs he gently took her by the shoulder and pulled her aside. The face he wore was the same one he used when he had been a Templar at the Circle in Ostwick, he’d lectured her about running in the halls with that face on once. It might have cowed her if she hadn’t known he was a kind and gentle knight sworn to keep her safe.

“Your Worship, did I hear right? Do you mean to leave the keep?” he asked, the lines of his face crinkled and softened.

She felt caught, but Ser Marbrand was a true and loyal friend. If her secrets were spilt, it was never from him. From her time in the Circle to her elevation as Inquisitor, Ser Marbrand had been with her. He had guided and protected her and been a truer father than her own flesh and blood. And when the Circle had fallen, he, along with her younger brother Derrek had gathered up the friendly mages and tranquil and left. Her brother had fallen in battle against a blood mage, but Marbrand had sworn on his blade and before men and Maker that he would protect her from all dangers, even if that danger was herself.

“I must do this, Ser.” She told him plainly.

Marbrand sighed. “I promised to keep you from harm—I’ve nearly failed one to many times.”

“I’ll be fine,”

“You said that just before you left for the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” He reached for her marked hand and gently kissed it.

“And I was fine for the most part,”

“I am not sure I can let you do this, your Worship.” Marbrand let her hand drop and frowned. She knew he was getting on in years and the lyrium was slowly, but surely catching up with him. She wanted to take care of him as he had taken care of her, she didn’t want him to worry about her the way he did. But this was something she felt had to be done.

Genevieve cupped his face; “Serah Blackwall will be with me, and Prince Vael, and Varric too.” She told him, and then smiled. “And I have been known to knock a few villains down a peg.”

He put a hand on her forearm and smirked. “I will give you three days,” he told her. “After three days I will tell the Commander where you are off too. What he does after that is his choice.”

It was a fair deal even though it complicated things.

“Of course,” she said and then to soften the blow she offered; “I’ll give you a letter to give to Cullen, and you’ll tell him I ordered you to wait.”

“Then good luck, your Worship. I will pray for your safe return.” And he let her go.

Genevieve went up to her room and was surprised to find Blackwall was there. She had assumed he was still doing chores, but he was sitting in a chair by the fire, a carving knife in one hand and a half finished wooden soldier in the other.

He smiled when she came in. “There you are,” he placed the block and knife on the mantle and went to sweep the shavings into the fireplace.

“Here I am,” she said nervously. Now facing him, she wasn’t sure how best to tell him she was going to hunt Lady Hawke. And as she expected, he knew something was wrong right away.

She was in his embrace before she knew it. He smoothed her hair and kissed her temple. “I heard about what Varric said in the meeting—angered Cullen, it would seem.”

“Right,” she muttered, she’d almost forgotten that Varric was mad at her. It made her wonder if he would even come with them.

“You shouldn’t listen to him, you’ve enough to worry about.” She could feel the thrum of his voice and she yielded to his hug. It was easy to feel safe in his arms, easy to forget that there were things outside of _them_ that needed to be dealt with.

“I went to the chapel to pray,” she began. She would have to breech the subject sooner or later, especially if she wanted him to come with her. “And I was thinking about what Varric said and then the Prince came in and we spoke.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length so he might look at her better. “And I think Varric is right,” she bit her lip. “I went after you when you left. I think I need to go after Hawke.”

This did not please him. As she expected.

Blackwall frowned and dropped his hands from her shoulders. “You want to go to the Anderfels?”

“I want to help a man find the woman he loves—if there’s a chance I can help I want—”

He stopped her with a glare. “Have you ever stopped and thought that maybe _you’ve done enough?_ That the mark and war and Corypheus is enough?” his voice was raised and a fire had settled behind his eyes. “People keep expecting you to do things as if you haven’t saved their lives a thousand times over,”

“The Prince did not ask me,” she growled. Fighting was a natural part of a relationship, but she hated fighting with him. He would grow cold and distant and he wasn’t exactly the kind of man who wanted to talk about his feelings. “I volunteered. And besides, I don’t think people in my position simply get to _stop_.”

He drew beet red with rage, clutched and released his fists, and then took a deep breath. It calmed him and then; “I suppose not,” he spat.

“I want you to come with me,” she placed a hand on his arm and hoped that he might hold her again. She told him the plan, in detail; it would be up to him to decide.

“Genevieve,” he breathed, “I know something is wrong, I know you’ve been more tense than usual.” She dropped her hand from his arm. “I can tell, my lady, and this feels like you’re running away from something.”

“No,” she muttered, _how could he think that?_ “No I—”

“Sneaking out of the keep in the middle of the night, not telling anyone where you’re going—that seems a lot like running away to me, my lady.”

Now it was her turn to be angry. “I am not _running away_ ,” she growled; first Varric had called her little more than a coward and now _her own lover_ was calling her a run away. She went to her desk and began gathering dried herbs for the trip. She moved with such angered determinism that she found herself almost forgetting to pack some of her favorite candies.

Blackwall stood and watched her, rocking back and forth on his heels. As she began filling a little pouch with peppermints from the jar on her desk he came forward and kissed her. It was a powerful kiss, the kind of kiss saved for lovemaking and passionate moments when they could steal a few minutes alone. He put so much into it; she knew what he was trying to say before he pulled away and spoke.

“I don’t like it, but I will come with you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henceforth, updates will be moved to Wednesdays. Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	5. Chapter V: Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the shortness please, due to the nature of the story, some chapters will be pretty short and some pretty long. Thanks for reading, as always.

**Chapter V – Cullen**

Cullen glared up through the hole in the roof of his tower. Dawn was peaking over the hills, the sky lightened with every moment that passed. Another night of fitful sleep. Another night of terrible dreams. He rubbed his forehead and felt the slight feverish heat of his skin. During the Corypheus’s campaign his lyrium withdrawals had been almost unbearable, they were better now, but only just. 

With dawn’s arrival, he forced himself up and out of bed. The Inquisitor’s abrupt end to their meeting the other day had left him with a handful of reports he wanted to get out of the way. She had left their meeting, pale and irritable and the only reason they hadn’t implored her to come back was because a guard had said he spotted her in the chapel. He, Leliana, and Josephine let her have her space. Varric’s words had been harsh and cruel yesterday, they understood if she needed to be alone.

But the reports could not wait any longer. Cullen dressed quickly and made across the bridge for the keep. The castle was beginning to wake, slow at first, but soon it was bustling with movement. By now, the guard would be changing shift, the kitchen staff preparing breakfast, and the Inquisitor would be waiting for water to be brought up for a bath. In that way Genevieve Trevelyan most embodied the way of the old Circles, a bath every day, something sweet for breakfast—luxuries she disliked going without. He didn’t blame her, and even encouraged it. She worked hard for the people of Thedas and that deserved at least a few creature comforts.

Cullen came to the Inquisitor’s quarters and found Ser Marbrand kneeling in the stairwell, his hands clasped in prayer.

“Is everything alright, Ser?” Cullen asked, confused. Marbrand usually took his prayer in the chapel and never during his shift.

The Templar rose from his prayer and sighed. “If you are looking for the Inquisitor, Commander, I am afraid she is not here,”

“Oh,” Cullen nodded. He must have missed her on his way up. Feeling ever so slightly foolish he turned to leave and then looked back the knight. “Has she gone down to the kitchens then? Or the barn, I know she planned on riding Fiend.”

The Templar viewed him with sad eyes and shook his head. Cullen frowned, an inkling hit him in the back of his mind that reminded him too much of his time as a Templar and he made himself shake the thought from his head. She was not a Circle mage anymore and he was not a Templar.

“No, Commander,” Marbrand began, his voice heavy with shame. “She and Serah Blackwall fled in the night with Serah Varric and the Prince of Starkhaven.”

Cullen blinked. He could not believe what he was hearing. Gone? Fled in the night? _No. No she wouldn’t do that_. She and Blackwall had been known to leave the keep for a few hours without telling anyone where they were off too, but they always came back. She would not simply…leave them without explanation. It was not in her nature.

“Ser Marbrand,” Cullen snapped, his headache made him suddenly irritable and he was not interested in playing games. “You’re her guard, correct?”

“I am, Commander,” the old knight answered.

“Then would you care to explain where on the Maker’s green earth the Inquisitor has gone off too?” He felt a rage come on him. “You’re a guard, Ser, _your job is to watch her._ ”

The knight took a deep breath and calmly answered. “The Inquisitor personally asked me to look the other way, Commander.”

“ _What?_ ”

“In three days’ time, I will give you a note her Worship’s wrote. No earlier and no later.” Marbrand said. And then he elaborated; “The Inquisition is a worthy cause, Commander, make no mistake; but remember, I serve the will of Andraste’s Herald even when I dislike it.”

Cullen shook his head and let out an awkward laugh. “Incredible. This is one of those jokes—Sera is involved, I’m sure,”

The knight frowned. “This is no joke, Commander,”

“Come along, Ser Marbrand, we should see if we can get Leliana to fall for it.” He could not believe Marbrand’s words, but he knew deep down that the Inquisitor was gone.

The knight followed Cullen out to the main hall. They didn’t have to go far to find the Spymaster. Josephine and a slew of Leliana’s scouts were gathered around her. But above all the chatter one shrill voice broke through all the noise. Mother Delphine was trying to recapture Leliana and Josephine’s attention, but the two ladies were too busy speaking to each other.

Delphine caught sight of him and started shouting. Cullen ignored her and pushed his way through the crowd to his fellow advisors.

“We have a problem,” Leliana said in the same moment Cullen did.

“The Inquisitor is gone,” Cullen spoke first and beckoned Ser Marbrand over. The knight forced past Mother Delphine, who was demanding he get the advisors attention for her as it was his duty as a Templar. She glared when he walked away without word.

“Ser Marbrand, tell them what you told me,”

The knight did so without hesitation. Leliana nodded solemnly and looked at Josephine. “Well that explains it.”

“Explains what?” Cullen asked.

“The Divine is gone as well. She is probably with the Inquisitor.”

Cullen had never seen Josephine look so worried. Her calm exterior was marred by a worried frown and her hair was out of place, her clothes slightly ruffled. “They’ve gone after the Princess,” Josephine muttered to no one in particular. “We should have seen it coming,”

“Perhaps we should move this to a more private place?” Leliana suggested. Her voice was nearly drowned out by the shrill shrieking of Mother Delphine.

“Jadar is the closest port,” Cullen scratched his chin, his headache was becoming more painful by second and for a moment he thought he could smell the sweet, metallic scent of lyrium—it called to him like a long lost lover. He rubbed his temples and tried to block it out. “Oh, of all the immature, irresponsible—”

“ _Cullen_ ,” Leliana snapped, around them, heads snapped to attention and all noise ceased. “We will speak of this in private.” She told everyone to return to their duties and the three advisors made their way to the war room. Ser Marbrand followed after them with Mother Delphine hot on his heels.

“Commander!” the Chantry Mother shouted and finally broke into a run to catch up. “ _Commander_ , I demand that—”

Cullen turned and faced the woman. “Mother Delphine, I am sorry but we have a lot of work to do. Please wait outside in the main hall until we are ready to speak with you.”

Delphine’s face turned bright red. “But this is a matter of—”

“It is all a matter of great importance, Mother,” Cullen growled, he was getting angry. It was the kind of anger that had plagued him when he had first quit lyrium. It was like a boulder had been set on his shoulders and he was powerless to stop it from crushing him. “I can assure you, wherever the Inquisitor has gone off too, Cassandra is with her. They’re thick as thieves.”

“But I—”

Cullen ignored what she said next and slammed the war room door shut. He took his place at the table and dropped the stack of documents he had been carrying on top of the city marked _Kirkwall_. He braced himself against the table and tried to calm down. Josephine placed her hand on his back and tried to sooth him. He slammed his fist on the table.

“How could she do this?” He growled. “How could she just leave?”

Leliana offered an answer; “The Inquisitor’s calling is to aid others. I would be worried if she had ignored an ally’s plea for help.”

“But why would she not speak to us?” Josephine murmured. Her voice soft with worry, like a mother concerned about her children. “She’s always done that before. Why not now?”

Leliana answered that one too. “Isn’t it obvious, she thought we would not let her go, that we would call it dangerous.”

“She’s gone into danger before.” Josephine countered. “She fought Samson, dragons, Corypheus. She didn’t need permission for those things.”

“That was because she was the only one who could do it, and we had no choice.” Leliana said.

Cullen could tell that Josephine was about to respond. He stood up and leveled Leliana with a harsh look. “She’s our leader, Leliana, she can’t just run off whenever she fancies,” his head was pounding. It was getting harder to control the rage. “This is the act of an irresponsible child!” he shouted. “An errant little girl off to play hero—a mage given too much freedom!” he bit his tongue. Leliana fixed him with a glare and Josephine slapped a hand to her mouth in hopes of stifling a gasp. Even Ser Marbrand could not contain his surprise.

“I didn’t mean that,” Cullen grumbled miserably. “ _I didn’t_ , the Inquisitor is—”

“A mage, yes,” Leliana barked. Her usually cold, impassive eyes had turned fiery. “You call her an irresponsible child; I see someone who is off to do what would be expected of the Inquisitor. You say she is a mage with too much freedom and I say that for the first time in her life she’s allowed to make her own choices—so perhaps, _Ser Cullen_ , you should remove yourself from these proceedings until you remember that Genevieve Trevelyan is _your_ Inquisitor _and_ the Herald of Andraste.”

Cullen had never seen her so impassioned before. It was as if his slip of the tongue had been a personal insult. He did not mean the words. His head hurt, he wasn’t thinking clearly.

“I didn’t mean it, Leliana. I’m just,” Cullen sighed and rubbed his forehead. “What do we do?”

“We act as if this mission was planned,” Leliana shrugged. “We work together like we always do. This is like any other time she goes out on a mission. We do the best we can.”

“And what about the Divine?” Josephine asked.

“Cassandra isn’t Divine yet. We can only assume she chose to go with the Inquisitor,”

Josephine shook her head. “We can’t just let the Divine-elect and the Inquisitor go off without warning, Leliana. _You_ know that. What am I going to tell the people?” Cullen nodded in agreement. Yes, it was true that the Venatori were in retreat and that the Thedas was gradually going back to normal. But there was no telling how long the Inquisitor’s venture might take and for the two most important leaders in all of Thedas to have vanished—especially now—could cause problems in the future.

“That the Inquisitor is off on a mission.” Leliana spoke as if it was that obvious and that easy.

Cullen shook his head, he took a deep breath to clear the ache and rage from his head. “No, I’m sorry Leliana, we can’t. It would be different if it was just the Inquisitor, but with Cassandra with her…the Chantry will be breathing down our necks. We must send someone after them; someone has to bring them home.”

Leliana shook her head. “All this talk of bringing them home as if they are not adults,”

“What would you have us do, Leliana?” Josephine had never looked so frustrated.

“The original plan for the Inquisition was to run it with a council. We will do just that.” Leliana crossed her arms and viewed Cullen with eyes that said she knew more than what she was letting on.

Cullen called her on it. “Did she tell you something?” he demanded. “Are you having her followed?”

Leliana shook her head and smirked. “I think I know how she left without anyone seeing her. I’m quite proud, actually.”

Cullen scratched his chin irritably. “You should send people after her, Leliana.”

The spymaster almost laughed. “Oh no, Commander, if you want to bring her home, you can do it. I will not treat the Inquisitor like a child. She’ll return when she’s ready,”

Cullen looked over at Marbrand. The knight was standing in the corner of the room, waiting to be dealt with. “If you have that note, Ser, I would have it now.” Cullen knew where the Inquisitor was going, but there was a lot of country between Skyhold and the Anderfels, there was no telling where she would be. Her note may give some hint, or even outright tell them the plan. He would need it if he was to send an escort.

The Templar denied him immediately. “I promised the Inquisitor three days.” He said. “I am sorry, Commander.”

“Ser Marbrand, I order you to hand over that note.” Cullen spoke through clenched teeth. This was becoming ridiculous.

“With all due respect, Commander, I am not under your authority.”

“I should have you arrested—” Cullen growled.

“ _Are you joking_?” Leliana snarled, her fist hit the table so hard some of the map markers fell over. “You will not put him in my dungeons, I can assure you that.”

“Cullen,” Josephine made her tone sound even and calm, but Cullen could see the fury building in her. “Ser Marbrand is doing as he was ordered; you cannot punish that kind of loyalty.”

“I have every right, Marbrand you and Ser Brandon are confined to the barracks until you see reason.” Cullen declared. The knight bowed, his face was passive, as if he expected this outcome and had already accepted it. He left them without a word.

Before the door was even closed, Leliana burst into bitter laughter. “We’ve only know she’s been gone for an hour and already we’re devolving into infighting—if Justinia could see us now,”

“This isn’t funny, Leliana.” Cullen hissed. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been this angry. She should have just talked to them…what would make her think that they would deny her request to help the Prince? Had they done something to hurt her feelings?

He should have talked to her the other day. She’d been upset by Varric and by something else. He should have stopped and talked to her, see what was wrong. He was her advisor, it was his job to make sure she was alright—he considered himself her friend, why didn’t he just interrupt her prayers?

Cullen leaned against the table again, his headache had moved down his neck and to his spine. He needed to lie down. “We all saw it right? That something was wrong?”

Josephine set her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “She’ll be okay; we’ll be okay.” She removed her hand and Cullen sat up. “Maybe she needs this…needs to prove something to herself. We all have to do that sometimes.”

Cullen agreed softly. “I suppose we should gather the remaining Inner Circle.”

“Yes,” Leliana said. “We gather a council of the Inquisitor’s closest friends and together we will stand in her place. It will be like this was the plan.”

Cullen gave a slight snort of laughter. “What do we tell Mother Delphine?”

“That they should have more closely watched the Divine-elect.” The three of them shared a laugh, bitter and short. Josephine went to gather the others. Cole and Bull were the first to arrive, Dorian next, and then Sera came in followed by the First Bow of Starkhaven.

“Eh,” Sera muttered sleepily. “This one says she has to speak to you lot.”

Lady Moraven Drummond saluted and gave the advisors a slight bow. Cullen admired her warrior’s demeanor. She was a hard looking woman, tall, willowy, and with soft clever eyes. She was the kind of soldier who looked the part of a dummy grunt, but who was sharper and smarter, able to pick up tiny nuances and follow politics as well as any noble.

“Lady Drummond,” Cullen greeted her and offered her a place by the war table. She took it with a respectful nod. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”

Drummond cleared her throat. “Yes, Commander Rutherford. And in fact I am here under orders.”

“What’s happened?” Dorian asked, he looked like he had only just gotten up. He looked at Josephine. “You said something about an emergency.”

“The Inquisitor, Varric, Blackwall, and Prince Vael have…left.” Josephine explained. There was no beating around the bush.

“ _What?_ ” Sera cried, she crossed her arms over her chest as if she didn’t believe it.

“What do you mean by that?” Dorian was awake now, his eyes had grown wide and confused.

“She and the others left in the middle of the night, we assume to go after Prince Vael’s lady wife.” Cullen sighed.

“You’re assumption is correct, Commander,” Drummond confirmed with a polite nod. “the Prince gave me orders to be of use to the Inquisition in any capacity that you demand.”

“I can’t believe she just left without me!” Sera roared and stomped her feet. “We’re partners in crime; she can’t just sneak out in the middle of the night without me!”

“I’m sure she had a good reason too.” Dorian muttered, although he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“Whatever!” Sera turned her anger at the mage. “She’s gone off on a secret adventure and I’m not with her! I knew something was wrong! All broody—like beardy and such,”

“Maybe she’s bored, the boss’ll come back.” Bull leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms, very much unconcerned.

“Cassandra went with her.” Leliana added.

Bull snorted, amused. “Can’t say I expected that.”

Drummond frowned. “I did not see fifth with them,”

“Are you sure?” Josephine was now scribbling on a piece of parchment, probably a letter to the Chantry.

“Yes, I would have taken note if I had seen the future Divine,” Drummond answered. She looked at Cullen. “Have you any orders, Commander. If not, I would like to return to my men.”

“You may do so First Bow,” Cullen said. She bowed and left.

The room lapsed into silence.

_Maker almighty_ , Cullen thought. Drummond hadn’t seen Cassandra—this just kept getting worse and worse. She had to be with the Inquisitor. _Had to be_. Cass was rash and more than a little impulsive…but stupid enough to just wander off into the night? No. 

Dorian finally broke the silence. “So what do we do now?”

“We are the acting council,” Leliana explained, exasperated.

“Fair Enough,” Dorian smirked. “I motion for breakfast first, and then you can explain what’s going on. In proper detail.”

There was no argument, although Cullen did not go to breakfast. If Leliana would not send her scouts, he would send his own men. Ten men to Jadar, ten men to Val Royeux. They would cut the Inquisitor off and beg her to come home. She was not the kind of woman to deny her troops their peace of mind. They’re pleading would bring her home.

XXXX

On the third day of the Inquisitor’s absence, Ser Marbrand placed the Inquisitor’s letter in Cullen’s hand. With Leliana and Josephine reading over his shoulders, he went through the neatly written note.

_My dear, Esteemed Advisors,_

_I am sorry. I probably should I spoken to you before I left, but I had to leave. This is no one’s fault but my own; please don’t blame Ser Marbrand or Ser Brandon. In the interest of honesty, I am going after Lady Hawke. We will be following her path from Kirkwall to the Anderfels. I understand if you feel the need to send someone after us, but I will duly ignore them. I will come back, but I want to do this. I have to. I will fully explain myself upon my return._

_P.S. The Prince and Varric have offered to finance the entire journey so I will not be using the Inquisition’s coffers unless it is an emergency._

It was signed _Inquisitor G. Trevelyan_ and the Inquisitor’s All Seeing Eye marked it in green wax. Cullen’s rage had dissipated over the past few days, and with this note he felt a little better about where she had gone off to. He was still hoping his men would turn her around, but her words gave him some comfort. If she truly felt she needed to do this, he would have to find a way to accept it. Even if he didn’t like it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, as it turns out, I have to move updates to Saturday. Sorry for the erratic switching up, something just came up and can't be ignored. 
> 
> Now might be a good time to explain the "timeline." If you are familiar with the structure of the Song of Ice and Fire series, then you are well aware that GRR Martin uses a very fluid timeline, in which one chapter may be a day after a particular incident while the next chapter may be months or even a year after the same incident. While my story will never venture so far into a year, I will be jumping forward or back, depending on whose POV a chapter is in. Hopefully it doesn't get confusing and you all just "go with it." 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	6. Chapter VI: Varric

**Chapter VI – Varric**

Varric always thought that the one thing that made a good writer was the ability to write something in one’s head as it was happening, and then taking what he had thought and transcribing it onto a page. He knew, as it was happening, exactly how he was going to write this part.

 _Two and a half weeks out of Skyhold and the hardest part of the journey was convincing a dracolisk into the hold of a ship._ It was amusing to watch Blackwall tug on the beast’s reins while the Inquisitor tried to coax Fiend in with bits of nug jerky. Fiend reared up and let out a screech so horrible it made the ship’s crew cringe in fear.

_Finally fed-up with the monster’s behavior, the Inquisitor pulled a small bunch of leaves from her belt and wrapped the jerky around them. She offered the treat to the dracolisk, who swallowed it up without a second thought. Moments later the creature eased up on reins and his furious eyes darkened with sleep. He let himself be put in the hold where he would fall fast asleep._

“There,” the Inquisitor sighed, wiping dracolisk slobber from her hands. She turned to the captain and put a silver coin into his palm. “Thank you, Serah. I’ll keep him drugged, he’s spirited, he doesn’t usually mean anyone harm.” 

 _The key word here is usually_ , Varric chuckled.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Blackwall grunted and then entered the hold. Varric had noticed the old warrior’s clipped and almost hostile demeanor since they had started the whole venture. Blackwall had spent their time on the road to Amaranthine completely ignoring Choir-Boy, glowering at Varric, and being downright cold to the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor had noticed it too. During the night in Amaranthine, Varric had heard whispered, but sharp arguing between them. Something about _straightening up and at least pretend to care_ responded with a harsh _I am not here for them, I am here for you_.

Conflict was a part of life, it was what made his books sell so well—but conflict between those two was bad. When either was unhappy the other tended to sway to the same unpleasant mood. And right now Blackwall’s mood was making the Inquisitor angry and because he hated to see her so upset it made him more upset and it was just a ridiculous cycle of angry and unhappy.

Time apart might do them some good and Varric thought it might be a smart to ask the Inquisitor to play a game of cards with him, away from Blackwall. But not now, she was busy with the final preparations and he wanted to jot down a few things before he forgot them.

Varric pulled a stack of papers out of his bags, a quill, and portable inkwell. These were the tools, (aside from Bianca), that he never left home without. There was a lot of activity on the deck so he picked a place well out of way where he could sit down and write.

There hadn’t been much time from their daring escape to the road and Amaranthine to write down what had happened. He started with the midnight rendezvous.

Just like Choir-Boy had said, they met in the underground stables, their packs ready. They would travel light and fast. Although the Inquisitor insisted that she didn’t need anyone permission to leave her own keep, she told them she didn’t think her advisors would have approved of her mission to find Hawke, thus all the secrecy. And although the original plan had been to charter a boat in Jadar, they choose Amaranthine instead. Cullen would certainly send someone after them.

Varric had always thought the Inquisitor impressive in her own way. He respected her and had regretted the words he’d said in the war room almost immediately after saying them. But this—this was beyond what he expected her response to be—this was Hawke territory. This was the kind of fun and reckless adventuring that had made Skylar Hawke a household name. And Varric _loved it_. It almost felt like being back in Kirkwall, sneaking through sewers and avoiding trouble while simultaneously getting neck deep in it.

There might be hell to pay afterwards, but Sweet Maker and by the Paragons, he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

They were going to trace Hawke’s path from Kirkwall up to the Anderfels, a daunting journey. And while taking the Imperial Highway up to Andoral’s Reach seemed like the safest route, they weren’t sure if that was the road Hawke had taken. He thought they would stick close to it though, as they knew where Hawke had gone. Weisshaupt would be their best bet for finding her—dead or alive—although Varric refused to think of Hawke as anything less than the sly, sarcastic, and _alive_ woman he’d spoke with only a few months ago.

While it might have been easier to ride to Val Royeaux, the Inquisitor insisted on going the long way round. “They’ll send Harding,” she’d said, “Or worse, Harding _and_ Leliana. Taking a longer road might give us the chance to lose them and see our quest through.” He didn’t argue with her, although Nightingale would find them if she really put her mind to it.

The hard part of the trip would be the Blasted Hills and the Hunterhorn Mountains. Varric had never been that far west but there were tales. Darkspawn raids every night, the taint running wild, the only defense was the Warden’s fortress in the Anderfels and there simply were never enough Wardens to combat it all. And that was just the darkspawn; the hills were thick with bandits, slavers, and dragons. There was no telling what trouble they might get into. It was all very exciting.

Varric dipped his quill and started again where he left off.

_“Keep the men here,” the Prince ordered. “Help the Inquisition in any way you can. Follow Commander Rutherford’s orders.”_

_The First Bow of Starkhaven bowed respectfully; “Yes, my Prince,”Moraven Drummond would follow his orders to the letter, but she was not fond of his plan. Again, she asked him to take a few men-at-arms with him._

_“I’ll be fine,” Sebastian insisted. “There was a time where I romped around Kirkwall with my lady and her friends, all without guardsmen.”_

_Lady Moraven viewed her Prince with gloomy, but yielding eyes._

A shadow fell over him and Varric looked up to see Choir-Boy reading his work. The Prince smirked; “Lady Moraven may take offence to you calling her _gloomy_.”

“Gloomy, hard ass, shesh—she reminds me of Aveline. All seriousness all the time.” Varric closed the cap on his inkwell and wiped his quill clean.

“Her shots don’t veer left,” the prince was smirking.

Varric stood up and chuckled. “I’m just going to tell Bianac you think she’s pretty so she doesn’t decide to teach you a lesson,”

Choir-Boy laughed and gave Varric a pat on the back. “I owe you a lot, Varric.”

“Bah,” Varric grumbled. “Don’t even mention it. I’d do anything for Hawke,”

“Still, thank you,” the Prince left to find his cabin and Varric thought it might be a good idea to do the same. It was almost noon and the crew looked ready to ship-out. He followed Sebastian down into the belly of the ship.

XXXX

Varric found the Inquisitor leaning over the ship railing. Even under the waning moon she looked green and miserable. He had a bit of bread with him because she’d skipped supper. Blackwall was nowhere to be seen; _probably still moping with the dracolisk_ , Varric thought.

“Here Inquisitor, have some of this, It’ll make you feel better,” He held out the bread. She had been sick almost from the moment the ship set sail. The crew had made fun of her and offered her less then helpful advice until Choir-Boy reminded the Captain that she was the Inquisitor and he made his men shut up and gave her a lengthy apology as she hurled the content of her stomach over the side.

She turned away a wretched frown on her lips. “Oh, how can any of you eat on this Maker forsaken thing?”

Varric put a soothing hand on the small of her back and then guided her over to a place where she could sit in relative comfort. He placed the bread in her hands got her to eat a little bit before he brought out a deck of card.

“Sometimes you just have to take your mind off things,” Varric explained. It was a nice night, albeit, colder than Varric cared for, but the sky was clear and the stars were bright. The only light came from the soft sway of the few lanterns kept on deck.

The Inquisitor moaned and clutched her knees up to her chest. Varric was glad that there were only a few crewmen on duty. He liked his privacy and he figured the Inquisitor was already embarrassed enough as it was. Varric gave her a hand of cards.

“Argh, I’m not really in the mood for wicked grace right now, Varric.” The Inquisitor leaned against the railing and closed her eyes.

“It’ll make you feel better,” he told her.

“Oh, how do you stand it?” She grumbled. “I was not made for the ocean,”

Varric laughed. “And I am? Come on, you just have to take your mind off things, we don’t even have to bet.”

She finally fanned out her cards and looked them over. They played a hand, and then another, and a third. By the fifth, Blackwall emerged from the cargo deck where they had been keeping Fiend and the rest of the horses. He cleared his throat and the Inquisitor looked up at him, Varric would have described her eyes as _almost pathetic and tinged in a longing for the man’s affection and good graces._

“The horses are fed,” Blackwall told them. “And Fiend has eaten, I gave him the herbs just as you told me, he’ll be asleep till morning. I am going to bed, my lady.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “Let me finish this hand and I’ll join you if my stomach allows.” She reached for a pouch on her belt and drew out small bundle of dried mint leaves for chewing.

 _Blackwall grunted affirmatively_. Varric sighed when the Hero left.

The Inquisitor set her cards down and Varric noticed how truly sad she looked. He sighed again and starting cleaning up their game. Finally, he said; “Trouble in paradise?”

“A disagreement,” she muttered, eye downcast. “Sometimes people who love each other fight; it’s just how it works.”

Varric placed what he hoped would be a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’ll work it out,”

“Of course,” She stood up and thanked Varric for the game. He watched her go, finished cleaning up their mess, and then went to his own quarters.

On his way he passed by the room Blackwall and the Inquisitor were sharing and he couldn’t stop himself from walking slower as he went past. He thought he heard quiet voices arguing. He stopped and listened for a few minutes, but if anything was being said it was completely unintelligible. And truth be told, he wasn’t listening very hard. Deep down he knew the two love birds deserved their privacy; even though the Inquisitor’s story begged to be told, there were things he would leave out for their sake.

Varric shared his room with Choir-Boy. The Prince was sitting in his hammock, still awake. He was twirling a dagger in his hands. Varric knew it was one of Hawke’s by the red and black leather grip.

Choir-Boy looked up at him and gave him a somber smile. He stowed the dagger under his pillow and Varric checked over Bianca and his bags before stripping down for bed.

“She took my Grandfather’s bow,” Sebastian said as he cast a glance at the simple wooden longbow he’d brought with him. “Left her dagger in its place.”

“Hawke’s version of a promise.” Varric chuckled. As long as Varric had known Hawke, when she made promises she always followed through. Leaving one of her many daggers was one of the ways she swore to return. “She gave me one once,”

“Oh?”

“Collateral, she said.” Varric explained, he moved Bianca to a safer place near his hammock. “Just before the Deep Roads, put it in my hand and said she’d have the money for the expedition and if not I could have her favorite dagger.”

Sebastian chuckled and tried to make himself comfortable in his bed. “On our wedding day she gave me her silverite blades—the throwing knives, you know the ones?”

“Mabari inlaid in silver on the hilt?” Varric climbed into his hammock.

“The very ones,” he could hear the fondness in the Prince’s voice. “She swore before men and Maker to love and cherish me, but those blades… I knew she was serious when she gave me those daggers. I knew she meant every word of her vow.”

Varric was nodding but in the dark he knew the Prince couldn’t see so he said; “Hawke might be a scoundrel, but she takes that shit seriously.” He laughed. “Need a coin for the jar, Choir-Boy?”

“I’ll give you a pass but only because Skylar isn’t here.” Sebastian chuckled.

“I promise I won’t tell her,”

“Good,” the Prince sighed and yawned. “Thanks again, Varric, for doing this.”

“No problem,” Varric grunted and then they lapsed into silence and eventually sleep.

XXXX

_Even half in ruin Kirkwall loomed like a phantom of Tevinter power. Fog enclosed the harbor, the waves were choppy and the Gallows were as creepy as they had ever been. There were still remnants of red lyrium growing off the side of the cliff. The docks were a ghost town, as their ship drew closer it became more and more apparent that even with the help of both the Inquisition and Starkhaven, Kirkwall was still a long way off from its former glory. Anders’ work had had a more lasting impression than he’d probably ever imagined._

“Well Inquisitor,” Varric said as he finished off his sentence and then cleaned his quill. The Inquisitor did not turn away from the forthcoming shadow. “Welcome to Kirkwall, the City of Chains.” 

If the city had made an impression then she was far too ill to be bothered to show it. The rough ocean had made her seasickness worse, so when she hadn’t spent their week and a half long trip being sick of the edge of the boat, she’d drugged herself into sleep. They’d tried a number of remedies to make her feel better but all of them had failed save a potent sleeping draught.

When the ship finally made port the Inquisitor thanked the captain and the sailors, paid them promptly, saw there things and their mounts safely off and then vowed never to get onto one of those creaking wooden death traps ever again.

Fiend was excited to be free of the confines of the ship. The dracolisk had never seen a major city before. Even in this desolate, derelict state, Kirkwall was still full of people. And where the dracolisk looked excited to be in a new environment, the people looked wary. To be safe, the Inquisitor made sure that Fiend’s reins were well secured before they all mounted up.

They all wore cloaks, but it was more for hiding their identities, than the coolness of the docks. The Inquisitor had chosen to wear her Inquisition battle-mage armor. Varric figured that her thought was to make herself look like a simple Inquisition soldier, but she had had her likeness drawn by many an artist, anyone with access to a book or newspaper might know her face.

“We should drop in on Guard Captain Aveline.” Varric suggested as they made their way through the winding streets of Lowtown. “She might know something,”

“And we should get an inn,” Blackwall grunted and looked at Genevieve. “You need to sleep a night where you don’t have to drug yourself.” Varric took note of the caring look in Blackwall’s eyes, but his demeanor still showed that he was upset.

“You’re probably right,” the Inquisitor said. “But I want to see the Guard Captain and the ruins of the Chantry—if Sebastian would care to join me.”

Sebastian agreed and told her he had intended to visit the memorial anyway. Starkhaven had financed it, but he had yet to visit it.

Lowtown was busy; the streets were filled with people buying and selling goods. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the scent of sweat and stale urine. _Smells like home_ , Varric smiled fondly as they passed the Hanged Man. He thought for a moment that it would be nice to get a room there for old times’ sake, but he was traveling with royalty and the leader of the Inquisition. They would get rooms in a nice inn up in Hightown.

_As busy as Lowtown was, Hightown was nearly deserted. Those who could afford to leave had left; some of them off to greener pastures before the dust had even settled. The once stately manors now lay abandoned. Gardens were overgrown and choked with weeds, the evidence of looting was still obvious on some streets, and those people who had remained moved quickly through the streets, their personal guards following after. City watchmen stood at regular intervals, all of them bleary eyed with exhaustion._

Varric wrote it in his mind as he saw it. Most of the broken masonry and ruined buildings had been cleared away. Much of it had been recycled for repair uses. It was all a sad and sorry sight, not that Varric felt particularly sorry for the wealthy of Hightown. But when they passed by the Amell manor, covered in ivy and the scrawl of graffiti, Varric felt the true weight of what had happened here. 

Sebastian pulled softly on the reins of his white charger and stopped before the front door of the manse. A guard was standing nearby, she eyed them suspiciously but decided that they didn’t mean any harm and went back to mindlessly watching the street.

Varric stopped and looked at Blackwall and the Inquisitor. “Hawke’s old place,” he said, they nodded and without saying a word they left the two men be.

Varric looked over the graffiti. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a city turn to quickly on its own savoir. Hawke had saved them all from the Qunari menace and one of her associates turns out to be a lunatic and she gets blamed as a coconspirator.

Sebastian moved a bit of the ivy and viewed a particularly nasty slur with sad eyes. He pushed the leaves back over it; Varric could see him fighting a rage inside him. Varric reached over and gave him a reassuring pat.

“Come on Choir-Boy,” he urged his horse towards where Blackwall and the Inquisitor were waiting.

“This is wrong,” the Prince murmured. “She saved this city, twice over.” He hung his head and followed Varric.

“She got you; I guess that’s fair trade.” Varric tried to lighten the mood.

Sebastian shook his head. “She built this from her own blood and sweat Varric. To leave it behind like this—it renews all the anger all over again. For the Arishok, for Anders—for this _blasted_ city.”

“It’s got its problem, Choir-Boy, but Kirkwall is home,”

“Aye,” Sebastian nodded bitterly and they continued in silence.

A few more streets and they came to the Chantry memorial. It was a simple reflection pond with a small fountain and a statue of Andraste, her arms lifting the eternal flame up towards the sky. The names of those identified after the carnage had been inscribed on the side of the fountain. Five guards stood watch around the memorial, the watched the visitors arrive but no greetings were handed out.

Sebastian and the Inquisitor dismounted. Blackwall took their reins. “We should look for an inn,” Blackwall told Varric. “Unless you—”

Varric shook his head. He’d made his peace with this tragedy a long time ago. “Oh no, I’m good.” He gave Choir-Boy and the Inquisitor a wave and told them to take their time. “Me and Hero will go get us a couple of rooms.”

Hightown had changed since last Varric had seen it. He took Blackwall to an inn once knew as the Mourning Griffin and found it had been taken over by a new owner and renamed to the Oak Barrel Inn. It looked cozy and quaint, and not nearly as rowdy as the Griffin had been. _If memory serves that is_ , Varric left the mounts with Blackwall and went inside.

He found the owner at the bar and held out a silver coin for his attention. “Got two rooms?” he asked. The main room wasn’t very crowded, although it wasn’t quite supper time yet.

“Yes, Messere.”

“And we have three horses,” Varric added and then he pulled a gold coin from his pocket. “And…a dracolisk. He’ll need a separate pen and meat.”

The owner looked confused. “Meat…Messere?”

“You’ll see.” Varric pushed the coins into the man’s hands and led him outside. The innkeeper caught sight of Fiend and was very reluctant to put the beast up in his stables until Varric shoved another gold piece into his hands. After that, the man was more than willing to call for his stable boy.

The owner took Varric and Blackwall inside to take account of their expenses. Blackwall sat down at the bar, asked for an ale while Varric paid.

“So two rooms, three beds.” The keep scratched it all down on his ledger. “I suppose you’ll be wanting supper and breakfast?” Varric nodded.

“And there is a lady with us; she would like a bath,” Blackwall exclaimed into his tankard.

That went on the ledger too and when it was all accounted for Varric was positive he was being swindled, but he paid up anyway because it was the least he could do for his friends. He even paid for Blackwall’s drink and then ordered his own.

“You know,” Varric began after a few minutes of silent drinking. “For two people who are fighting you’re still awfully considerate of each other.”

Blackwall fixed Varric with a nasty glare. He set his tankard down. “And what makes you think we’re fighting? More importantly, what makes you think it’s any of your business?”

Varric held back a laugh. “The Inquisitor is upset, you’re upset. I can tell and it’s not like you’re doing a very good job of hiding it.”

“Well, it’s none of your concern,” Blackwall growled, picked up his drink, and drained it.

“That’s where you’re wrong Hero,” Varric turned in his seat so he could look Blackwall right in the eyes.

_He had the look of an angry grizzly—big as one too. Less dangerous though. Whatever Blackwall had been in his youth, he’d mellowed with age, a blow would only come if someone dared to insult his lady and even then he might hold back for fear of incensing her._

“And what is that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh come on, Hero. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?” Varric tried to keep a smirk off his face. For weeks Varric (and a few others around Skyhold) had noticed the Inquisitor was a little off. “She’s been melancholy for weeks, and even though she spent most of her time on that ship sick as a poisoned nug, she’s finally shaken her gloom off.”

That seemed to hit home. Blackwall frowned and got up out of his seat. “Yeah,” Blackwall muttered. “I’ve seen it.” He turned away but then changed his mind. “But damn you Varric, don’t you think she’d done enough for the world?” he left the inn.

Lamenting an unfinished ale, Varric followed after him. “Let me tell you something about heroes, Hero.” Varric called after him. Blackwall was walking at quite a brisk pace, probably with the hope of leaving him behind. “Heroes don’t just get to stop being heroes. You think I wanted Hawke to get embroiled in the whole Corypheus mess? I didn’t want that, I asked her to do that because we needed help. And I asked the Inquisitor because I needed help.”

Varric caught up and jumped in front of him. “Okay, it’s true, I live for this kind of stuff—Hawke had the bug and she gave it to me—but I asked for help because I needed it!”

Blackwall stopped and glared down at him. “She’s doing this for herself; you got under her skin and you made her feel less than what she is. I know what you said to her in the war room.” And then he trudged off in the direction of the memorial.

Varric turned the corner and saw that the Inquisitor and Sebastian were not alone at the memorial. “Aveline!” Varric laughed.

“Dwarf,” the woman turned from the Inquisitor and gave him a half smile. “Nice of you to drop in without so much as a word that you were on your way. I was just acquainting myself with the Inquisitor,” she crossed her arms. “It would have been nice to know that the Herald of Andraste was going to be in my city.”

“Well, you know, we left in a bit of a hurry,” he shook Aveline’s hand.

“Right, right,” Aveline then looked at Sebastian. “So what brings you all here?”

Sebastian answered. “Hawke hasn’t returned home since she left for Weisshaupt.” The captain’s smirk fell. The Prince continued. “The Inquisitor offered to help me find her, we decided it was best to trace her route,”

Aveline nodded. “She came through here on her way to the Inquisition, dropped in on me and Donnic and then she stopped by my office on the way back. Told me she was off to see the Wardens,”

“Did she say anything else?” Varric asked, hopeful.

Avenline shook her head. “No,” then she looked at the Inquisitor. “I received an interesting message from your Commander, Inquisitor.”

Varric chuckled at the shy look the Inquisitor had on her face. But it disappeared after a moment as if she had suddenly remembered that she was the Inquisitor. She cleared her throat. “Oh?”

“Yes, Commander Cullen seemed very adamant that I turn you around and send you home.”

“Anything else?” She crossed her arms.

“He understands but he would very much like it if you returned to Skyhold.” The captain quoted.

Varric chuckled and the inquisitor sighed. “I suppose I should send a letter back. Do you have a rookery, Captain?”

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Aveline turned to Varric and Sebastian. “Have you an inn?”

“Oak Barrel,” Varric answered.

The captain nodded. “I will escorted the Inquisitor back then,”

Blackwall stepped forward and addressed the Inquisitor. “I’ll go, my lady,” he offered her his arm.

“Then we’ll be back by supper, Varric,” The Inquisitor accepted Blackwall’s arm and followed Aveline to the Viscount’s Keep.

XXXX

Varric woke the next morning feeling refresh and ready to continue their journey. He came downstairs and found Choir-Boy and Blackwall silently eating breakfast. Blackwall had left his heavy armor off, but he still wore a padded tunic and chainmail. He looked…better wasn’t the word Varric was looking for. _Maybe more content?_ He thought as he sat down and called for his breakfast.

“Morning, Varric,” Sebastian greeted.

“Choir-Boy,” Varric smiled. “Hero, and where is our fair Inquisitor?”

“Feeding the dracolisk,” Blackwall answered. “Stable boy won’t get near it.”

Breakfast arrived in the form of savory porridge, a single fried egg on top of it, and a few chunks of ham mixed in. Varric broke the yoke and let it run over the porridge and found himself disappointed at the taste. For the gold he put down on their rooms, the best part had been the bug free bed. _Well, no fleas, I guess that’s a good thing,_ he thought.

After a while, the Inquisitor came back in. She went up to her room to wash her hands and then came back down for breakfast.

“So what’s on today’s agenda?” Varric asked.

“We’ll take the road through Planasene Forest, meet up with the Imperial Highway near Cumberland.” The Inquisitor answered. “We’ll keep a good pace, see how far we get.”

“I should see to our supplies,” Blackwall started to get up, but the Inquisitor grabbed his hand to stop him. He knelt down and she whispered something in his ear before pressing a kiss to his bearded cheek and letting him go.

Once Blackwall had left Varric pushed his empty bowl and crossed his arms. “He’s coming around I see.”

“He’s getting tired of being in a stalemate.” The Inquisitor finished up her breakfast and pushed it away. “Sometimes he forgets I’m as stubborn as he is.”

Sebastian frowned. “I hope this venture hasn’t caused too much of a problem for you and Serah Blackwall.”

The Inquisitor shook her head. “We’re fine; just a little disagreement is all. He’s only looking out for me. We’re not angry…just frustrated.” She got up. “I should make sure all my things are packed. We need to get moving.”

XXXX

_Leaving Kirkwall was always harder than getting there. It took them two days to finally reach the edge of the Planasene Forest. With the stinking scent of city and sea behind them, they took shelter under the wide canopy of ancient trees. It was still high summer and that meant summer storms. The fourth night in the forest saw the Inquisitor and her companions in cold summer squall. Still, they pulled their cloaks around their shoulders and kept going._

Varric’s mare whinnied uncomfortably. The road was becoming a washout of mud and they found themselves looking for higher ground. The Inquisitor led them; her dracolisk seemed to be having the easiest time with the mud and rain. Blackwall rode as close beside her as he could. His charger, Warden, was the horse Fiend never dared to take a snap at. 

“What’s that up ahead?” Sebastian called out over a clap of thunder. He had the sharpest eyes of them.

“It looks like an aravel.” The Inquisitor said.

Varric looked ahead on the road and saw it. The red sails were nearly destroyed and he could see one of the wheels had been broken and thrown clear of the wreck. But as they drew closer, he saw that it was no simple wreck. There were bodies, burn marks on the wood, the beast pulling it had been killed—its body riddled with arrows—and there were children.

“Shit,” he muttered and his eyes drew over the broken corpse of an elven child.

“Maker, have mercy!” the Inquisitor gave her dracolisk a nudge and ran the rest of the way. She jumped down and kneeled down in the mud and rain. Blackwall joined her on the ground and they began checking for survivors.

Varric climbed down from his horse and spotted a Dalish man lying further away from the wreck. “Inquisitor! This one’s alive!” he shouted when he saw the man’s fingers twitch.

She jumped into action. “Blackwall hold his head up,” she ordered as she pulled a health potion from her belt.

The man moaned and begged them not to take the children. The Inquisitor shushed him and placed the vial to his lips. “Drink this; we’re not going to hurt you.” She looked at the prince. “Sebastian, I keep bandages in my bag, get them.” When the potion was gone she pulled off her own cloak to make the elf a cushion. “You’re alright,” she told him. “I am Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan. I’m here to help you,”

Varric saw the man’s eyes open to slivers. He viewed her with suspicion, but he didn’t have the strength to fight back.

“Your wound isn’t fatal.” She pulled another potion from her belt and dripped some of it over the bleeding wound in his side. Sebastian returned with some bandages. Once the elf was bandaged, they moved him under a tree where the rain couldn’t get him.

The Inquisitor gave him water and another health potion before asking him what had happened. He seemed reluctant at first, but he finally answered. “Slavers,” he muttered. “They ambushed us. The clan scattered.”

Varric saw the change in the Inquisitor. Her fist clenched and unclenched, but she softened when she looked back at the elf. “Justice will be done,” she told him. “The Inquisition doesn’t take kindly to slavers.”

She stood up and wiped the blood from her hands. Varric kept his eyes on the woods; the slavers could still be out there. It was Sebastian who saw something first. He yelped and they all turned to see a wraith soar through the woods.

Then the sound of thunder—but it was wrong—like a lock had been popped open. Varric turned to see the green glow of the Inquisitor’s hand.

“ _Rift_ ,” she growled, closed her hand, and took off running into the deep woods.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So due to time restraint, I’m updates early this week. I will not be able to update next week, unfortunately. But after next week, updates will resume on Saturday.


	7. Chapter VII: Blackwall

**Chapter VII - Blackwall**

Genevieve took off so fast Blackwall barely had time to react. _Go after her_ , was all he could think. And then when he heard the all too familiar sound of a rift tearing open and then saw the greenish tint the woods around them had taken, he understood what had drawn her into the forest. 

Ahead, Genevieve had her staff out. He drew his sword, _Lady’s Grace_ , and then made sure his shield was strapped tightly to his arm. Behind him, the Prince had notched an arrow to his bow and Varric had Bianca ready to fire. They had left the elf by the road; Blackwall hoped that he had enough sense to hide.

Blackwall broke into a clearing where the rift had opened. Demons and Dalish elves were battling around the trees. Most of the elves were injured; many of them sprawled on the ground, dead. Those few left fighting looked ragged and fatigued.

For a moment, Blackwall panicked. He’d lost sight of Genevieve in the thick foliage. Then he heard her voice—her Inquisitorial voice, commanding and fearless.

“Keep the demon’s busy; draw them away from the injured!” then a wall of ice shot up from where she was standing and cut off a rage demon from his quarry.

Blackwall didn’t need to be told twice. He lifted his war horn to his lips and blew three sharp blasts. Then he charged the rage demon when it turned its attention towards Genevieve. His sword cut a blazing swath through the demon’s strange flesh. The wound sizzled like a fire and then closed up almost immediately. Rage screeched and Genevieve hit it with an ice spell, Blackwall jammed his sword into its side while simultaneously bringing up his shield to block the attack of a hunger demon.

Varric took the hunger demon out with a quick succession of bolts. Blackwall turned back to Rage and pulled his sword free just as an elf with twin dagger landed on the demon’s back and finished it off. That left Genevieve free to disrupt the rift.

Blackwall watched as she raised her hand and a silver-green line connected between the rift and the mark. She held it for a moment, face calm, almost peaceful—as if using her mark felt good. Then, she snapped her arm back and pulled as if she had hold of a rope and was jerking it free. The rift collapsed slightly before bursting back open, leaving the attacking demons stunned.

“Finish them!” Genevieve roared and then called a rock from the fade to smash into a dazed shade.

Blackwall turned to the nearest demon and shoved his blade into its chest. An arrow whizzed by his head and through a wraith. The wraith disappeared and the arrow pinned another demon to a nearby tree. The Prince jogged past and shoved a dagger into the demon’s belly before returning to the safety of the woods.

An elf with twin daggers came up to Blackwall’s back. “Shem,” he greeted playfully. “You’re a big fellow; think you could give a man a lift?” a new wave of demons were crawling their way out of the rift—one of them a Greater Terror.

“What do you mean?” Blackwall slashed at an oncoming shade. The demon screeched and fell to the ground before disappearing back into the rift.

“Hold up your shield and brace your knees.” Then the elf ran at a hunger demon and killed it before turning around and heading full speed at Blackwall.

“Maker’s Balls,” Blackwall cursed the braced his legs and threw his shield out in front. He felt the weight of the elf hit the wood and iron and then Blackwall pushed forward to give them man more airtime. The elf flew up into the air and grabbed the shoulders of the Greater Terror, pulling the demon to the ground and then rolling clear.

Both Blackwall and Genevieve charged. She hit it with a fire spell before Fade stepping clear and Blackwall drove his sword into its chest. The scent of burning demon melted away as the Rift sucked the essence back up.

“Keep the despair off me!” Genevieve cried. She was being harried by a despair demon; she couldn’t disrupt the rift with it attacking her.

Blackwall broke into a run, He saw Varric loading Bianca with more bolts, the Prince’s quiver was empty and now he was using his bow to bludgeon a hunger demon.

The elf from before flung his dagger at the despair demon and missed. But it gave Blackwall the time he needed to get to the creature. He bashed his shield against the demon and it flew up into the air and danced away. A mistake, Blackwall nearly grinned. The other Dalish had been waiting for it; they attacked with brutal, synchronized, precision.

The rift faltered with the demons destruction. Blackwall turned to watch Genevieve raise her hand and close the rift up, her hand jerking back when it finally shut.

With the sky sown up, the greenish glow disappeared and the heavy presence of demons faded. It would take a few days for the beasts and birds to return here, but the woods were peaceful once more.

Blackwall breathed a sigh of relief and watched as Genevieve lowered her hand, looked down at the mark, before closing her fist and letting a slight, satisfied smile come to her lips. He went to her and looked her up and down for injuries.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked, she looked unharmed to him, but he could never be too careful.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Better actually.” She examined her marked hand again. “It feels like I’m the wall of a dam and someone just turned the mechanism to release water—I didn’t know all that pressure had built up.” Then she closed her hand and looked him right in the eyes. “It was a good fight, I needed it.”

It only crossed him as odd because she had never said anything like it before. Fighting and war had been her duty, not something she needed. But he chose not to say anything about it; he knew that sometimes the thrill of battle reminded you that you were alive. Fighting demons was a noble pursuit, and sometime the mark drew her to places, the rifts acting like a beacon. Perhaps this was how she always felt after taking care of a rift and this was the first time she had ever put voice to it.

He had no more time to think on it. The Dalish had gathered in the corner of the clearing. A few of them were speaking in their own tongue, it sounded like a debate was going on. An older woman with mage staff in hand seemed to have command of the elves. They obeyed when she gave them an order. Most of the elves melted into the forest, the woman and three others remained.

“Andaran atish’an, strangers,” the woman turned to Genevieve, her arms spread wide in greeting. “I am Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel of Clan Lavellan. I would like to thank you for your aide and ensure you are friend and not foe.”

Genevieve stepped forward. “Greetings, Keeper.” She bowed slightly. “I am Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, and leader of the Inquisition. We mean you no harm.”

The Keeper nodded and pointed to the elf who’d used Blackwall as a springboard. “This is Mahanon,” then she pointed to the other elf, he had a mage staff just as the Keeper did. “And this is my First, Sulahn.”

“This is Serah Blackwall,” Genevieve introduced them. “Serah Verric Tethras, and Prince Sebastain Vael of Starkhaven.”

The Keeper seemed to find them amusing. “I have heard of you, Inquisitor Trevelyan, you’re the woman who closed the hole in the sky. Quite an interesting party to be wandering the woods in the rain.”

“Actually,” Genevieve began, her voice taking on a new urgency. “We were on the road when we came upon an aravel. One of your people was hurt, but I healed him before the rift drew me in.”

With the determination of a skilled leader, the Keeper turned to her first, “Sulahn, fetch a few hunters and go back to the aravel.”

“Yes, Keeper,” the elf ran into the woods.

“Ma serannas, Inquisitor.”

“May I ask what happened, Keeper?” Genevieve put her staff back into the holster on her back. Blackwall sheathed his sword and slung his shield around onto his back.

The elder’s face shadowed with sorrow. “We usually stay away from the main roads, but the storm pushed us off course. We were attacked, slavers, bandits—we’re not sure. They gave pursuit when we ran into the…”

“Rift,” Genevieve said.

“Yes, rift. It scared our pursuers off, but left us with demons.”

“Put down five waves before you shems showed up,” Mahanon chuckled slightly.

“They would have kept coming,” Genevieve explained and held up her left hand. “My mark can close them up for good.”

“Handy thing to have,” Mahanon chuckled again.

Genevieve nodded and then another elven hunter came out of woods and spoke to the Keeper in Elvish. The woman excused herself and Genevieve turned to Blackwall.

“Someone should go get the horses. Hopefully Fiend hasn’t eaten any of them.”

“I’ll get them,” Blackwall offered.

“I’ll help,” the Prince said. He’d finally picked up the last of his arrows. Varric promised to stay with Genevieve.

As Blackwall and the Prince walked away, he heard Genevieve ask Mahanon if there were injured and if they needed an extra set of hands. Blackwall wasn’t sure he trusted the elves, but he also couldn’t see why they would hurt them. He decided it was best to focus on finding the mounts first. He could gauge the elves sincerity once all their supplies were accounted for.

Finding the horses was easy. Warden hadn’t wandered far and Varric’s mare had stuck close to the Prince’s charger. Fiend was a bit harder. During their absence the beast had gone off into the woods away from the road and had somehow had loosened his reins enough that he could use his teeth and jaws more effectively.

They did eventually find him though. The dracolisk had caught a scrawny rabbit and was chewing happily on it when Blackwall approached. The creature let Blackwall tighten up his reins and led him back to the road.

By now the elves had taken their injured clan-mate away from the wrecked aravel. The other bodies had been collected too, along with anything of use. Now the Dalish, under the careful watch of the Keeper’s First, were moving the broken aravel out of the road. The First eyed Blackwall and the Prince with great suspicion, as if he feared that they would attack the elves without provocation.

Blackwall mounted Warden. The big dun charger snorted and shook the water from his mane. The rain was finally beginning to let up, although the mud remained. Leading Fiend by the reins, Blackwall rode carefully back to the clearing.

The elves had set their camp up only a few yards away from where the rift had been. Three large aravels had been parked in a half circle. A makeshift pen was already being erected for the halla, cookfires were being lit, tents put up, and the injured were gathered around one of the aravels for treatment.

That was where he saw Genevieve. She was working at an aravel and grinding fresh elfroot into a paste while the Keeper healed the injured. He watched her do her work. She was a master herbalist, she knew everything there was to know about plants, and her magic made her potions and poultices all the more potent.

Blackwall took their horses and loosed them in the clearing, but he took Fiend and tied him to a tree where he would be in plain view but safe from curious elven children. Unsure of what to do now, he went back to Genevieve’s side.

Although her healing skills were limited, she could work miracles with herbs and the war with Corypheus had given her a crash course in combat medicine. She knew enough to heal superficial wounds, stitch cuts, set bones, and ease pain.

Right now she was focusing her energy on a young elven boy. The boy’s chest was cut and burned—a rage demon’s work. She fed him a potion and then smoothed an elfroot poultice over the burns. He watched her smooth a clean cloth over the boy’s forehead and then told him to lie still and rest; she gave him a sleeping draught and then went to help the Keeper with a dislocated shoulder. Many of the Dalish around her viewed her with eyes full of distrust, Blackwall understood why, but there she was healing their injured as if they were her own soldiers.

Blackwall sighed. _This_. He thought miserably. _I forgot about this_. Being Inquisitor—going out warring, fighting, nearly dying at every turn—it wasn’t always about that. There was the part about helping people: healing the sick, comforting the grieving, ensuring the basic necessities of refugees were met.

And he had told her that she had done enough.

But people like her would never stop. She couldn’t stop; it was not in her nature. Because she wasn’t being the Inquisitor or the Herald of Andraste; she was being Genevieve Trevelyan.

And then he couldn’t stand there and just watch her anymore. He asked if she needed any help. She looked up at him with battle worn eyes but still found it in herself to give him a smile. Before she could speak though, the Keeper looked up from her work.

“There is safety in numbers, Inquisitor. You would be welcome to spend the night in our camp.”

“Thank you, Keeper, we’ll stay out of your way,” The Keeper nodded. Genevieve looked back up at Blackwall.

“Could you get Varric and Sebastian and set up the tents?”

“I will try to find someplace dry, my lady.” Blackwall called the two other men to help him with camp.

Blackwall picked a spot that was well covered from the rain, close enough to the elves so as not to take advantage of the numbers, but far away enough not to bother them. Varric got a cookfire going and began heating up a little bit of wine he’d bought from a shop in Kirkwall while Blackwall and the Prince set up their tents.

The hunter, Mahanon, brought them a freshly caught hare, cleaned and skinned. Blackwall skewered it and put it over the fire to roast. The rain made it difficult to cook, but by nightfall the rain had mostly let up and hare finished roasting.

Blackwall went to fetch Genevieve, but she told him they should eat without her. She was busy helping the Keeper with the injured. The slaver attack coupled with the rift had left most of the Dalish hurt in varying degrees. As dark settled over the forest, those with lesser injuries were being cared for. It would take them hours to see every injury dealt with; but Genevieve would put the needs of others above her own.

Hungry and tired, Blackwall went back to the fire and accepted a bit of hare and a cup of warmed wine. After they had finished eating, Varric and the Prince called it a night. Blackwall remained awake even long after most of the Dalish had gone to sleep. He told himself he was staying awake to watch the camp, but he knew there were guards in the trees and around the perimeter of the clearing. He was awake for Genevieve.

For weeks now he had been standoffish and cold. He’d accused her of running away from some problem she refused to tell him about. But maybe…maybe she was running towards something? Maybe she saw something in the Princess’s disappearance that he could not.

He owed her an apology.

But as the hour drew later and later, he found himself nodding off where he sat. When the fire died he finally forced himself to bed.

XXXX

Blackwall wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep when he heard Genevieve enter the tent. He sat up, the cold hit his bare chest like a wall raising the hair on his neck and arms. The wet forest had cooled the air to a temperature he was unused too at the height of summer.

“I’m sorry,” Genevieve whispered, “Did I wake you?” She stripping her wet clothes off and hung them from the pole at the center of the tent.

“No, little bird,” Blackwall whispered back. He’d set out her bed, blanket, and furs. It was difficult to remember that last time he had slept without her next to him. Down to her smallclothes, she pulled up the blankets and settled on to her sleeping pad.

Blackwall reached over and pulled her into his arms. She shivered and said; “Who knew it would be so cold?” She whispered and gently placed her hand on his chest. Her hands were warm and tingled with magic. Her warming spells were true heaven, he let the warmth settle deep into his chest.

He rubbed his hands up and down her arms and reached forward to kiss her. She smelled of fresh elfroot, campfire, and travel—although they both smelled like the sweat and dirt.

Blackwall kept her tightly wrapped in his arms, pulled her closer, and tucked her head under his chin. She laughed and tried to pull away, but he didn’t let her go.

“You’re beard tickles,” she giggled and he relented, but only a little. He placed his hand over her cheek and felt her smile against his palm before whispering; “Okay, what’s the matter?”

Blackwall sighed and kissed her again. “Today I saw you help those people,” he muttered, keeping her face between his hands. He had spent hours ruminating on their ongoing disagreement; he still thought it was time for her to rest, to take a step back and let others do the work, but he could see why she felt so compelled. He should have seen it earlier; that was what he regretted most.

He took his hand from her cheek and took her left hand and pressed the mark to his lips. “You use this burden to save lives, sometimes I forget that.”

She smiled knowingly. “I love you,” she murmured and gave him a kiss of her own before settling against him and falling into the Fade.

He woke before Genevieve and he would have gotten up if he hadn’t been so pleased with the way her arm was flung over his chest, her fingers curled around his shoulder as if she were holding onto him for dear life. She had rolled onto her stomach, her face turned towards him, her lips slightly parted, hair a fuzzy halo around her head. She looked so peaceful and he found himself wondering what kind of dream she had crafted for herself in the Fade. Something with him, he hoped.

In the predawn light he could see the shadows of trees and the quick, elegant movements of Dalish preparing the morning meal. The smell of breakfast made his stomach rumble. They would move on today, he thought. A good night’s sleep surrounded by friends had done them some good. With the rift gone the clearing was peaceful and a part of him wanted to stay a bit longer, but they had a quest to get back too.

Gently, even though he didn’t want to wake her from her peaceful slumber, Blackwall shifted onto his side and propped himself up with an elbow. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her temple.

“Going to need you to make me some tea,” she muttered into a blanket, her voice husky with sleep.

“Aye,” Blackwall kissed her ear. “Coming up,” he got up, joints creaking and popping as he went. The long, daily rides and the wet weather had made all his joints stiff. He stretched and felt better, moving would make the stiffness abate.

Genevieve got up and started dressing. His stiff joints were making it hard to button up his tunic so she did it for him. “What’s the matter, old man?” She laughed. “Can’t keep up with us whippersnappers?”

“Just wait till it happens to you,” he grumbled good-naturedly, “You’ll just wake up one morning with nothing working quite like it used too.” She kissed his nose and sent him out of the tent to start breakfast.

The Prince was up already. He was leaning against a tree truck, kneeling, his mouth moving in silent prayer. Blackwall let him be and got the fire going as best he could. The rain had transformed into a thick, heavy mist. Within minutes his coat was nearly soaked through, his hair was beaded with moisture, and a chill was settling over him.

He found himself missing Skyhold’s weather the most. Even in the summer the castle was surrounded by snow but the river ice had melted and the sun reached them. Here in the forest the sun was blocked out by ancient trees and the storm had made the ground and air so wet breathing felt more like drowning.

After a great bit of smoking and fuss, the damp firewood finally caught. The fire was small and hardly useful, but it was enough to give a slight sear to a few chunks of salt pork and to toast some hard tack. The Keeper sent Mahanon over with some dried fruit and Blackwall gratefully accepted it as part of their breakfast.

Genevieve finally emerged from their tent when Blackwall had finished making her tea. The Prince finished his prayers and waited until Blackwall and Genevieve had helped themselves before he ate. Varric was the last to wake and the first to start dismantling his tent.

As they worked to clean up their camp they discussed their plans for the day. They would have to be careful if there truly were bandits or slavers about. After looking at a map they had decided that it would be another three days ride out of the forest, but only if the weather held. Another storm and they would have hunker down until it stopped.

Once they were packed and all their animals fed, Genevieve went to wish the Keeper well and thank her for their hospitality.

“And thank you for your help,” the Keeper smiled. “You are a friend to Clan Lavallen, and to show this I have asked Mahanon to guide you out of the Planasene.”

Blackwall knew Genevieve would refuse. “I can’t take one of your hunters, Keeper. My companions and I will be fine.”

The Keeper shook her head. “Mahanon will take you to the border of the forest near Cumberland. It will be good for him; he is a…rather energetic boy.”

The Keeper’s First seemed to dislike the plan most of all, going so far as to voice his opinion in angry elvish. She responded with; “We always help those who help us, ma enansal.” She turned to Genevieve. “He is a hunter, Inquisitor; Mahanon will find his way back to us as soon as he sees you safely to the forest border.”

“Very well, Keeper, thank you.” Genevieve bowed politely and the Keeper called Mahanon over.

“Da’fen, gather your supplies, you’re to guide our friends out of the forest as we discussed last night.”

“Yes, Keeper,” the elf seemed happy to hear the news.

“Take them down safe paths and remember to mark them.”

“Yes, Keeper.”

“Now go on, child.”

XXXX

Genevieve gave Fiend a light smack on the rear. “Not food, you beast.” She growled as the dracolisk eyed Mahanon’s mount with predatory eyes. The elf rode a great red hart, its haunches painted with blue stripes. It was a noble creature, Blackwall thought, beautiful and perfect for the rough terrain of the forest. Genevieve rode next to Mahanon, Blackwall and Varric behind them; the Prince guarded their rear, his bow at the ready just in case a nug or rabbit should go by.

The damp air still persisted but Blackwall could see patches of sun through the leafy canopy. He hoped that Cumberland would offer a more arid climate. Cumberland would mark their entry into Nevarra. If they continued to follow the Imperial Highway it would take them into Orlais then back up into Nevarra before the Blasted Hills and the Anderfels. The Imperial Highway was the long route; the Prince had admitted that if he knew his wife as well as he thought he did, then she had most likely cut a path through Nevarra, instead of taking the Highway. They still had some time to think about it though, it had been decided that once in Cumberland they would make their final decision.

Mahanon was telling Genevieve a Dalish folktale; something about the Dread Wolf and a bear. When the story was finished he asked her about her mark. Genevieve explained it to the best of her ability, although the elf seemed to have lost interest by the end of the story.

“Just before the Conclave, a few of the Clans met up to discuss how the Mage-Templar war would affect the Dalish.” Mahanon said after a while of silent riding. “Sulahn and I offered to go but they sent two others from a different Clan. Guess we were lucky we didn’t go.”

“It was horrible,” Genevieve said grimly. “Sometimes I can still hear the screams.” She’d expressed as much to Blackwall before, but she was always unwilling to discuss the Conclave any more than she had to.

To lighten the mood, Mahanon asked about Fiend and the two began a long and endearing conversation on their mounts.

Before long it was time to make camp. They ate a cold supper of hard tack and jerky, Mahanon chose to take the first watch and Blackwall the second. When it was his turn for watch, the elf hopped down from the tree he’d been in.

“There was a light in the distance—a fire, I think. Not sure who it belonged to, but it’s gone now.”

“If it’s slavers than the Inquisitor will want them dealt with.” Blackwall told him.

“I noted the location, we can check the sight in the morning.” And then the elf pulled himself back up into the tree with another blanket and fell asleep.

Blackwall’s watch was uneventful. Genevieve had taken the final watch, when Blackwall woke he found her conferring with Mahanon. They ate a quick breakfast and cleaned up camp. Even though it would take time, they had decided to check out the camp Mahanon had seen in the distance.

Mahanon went to scout ahead, his hart moved almost as swiftly and silently as he did. He came back and told the Inquisitor; “You should probably see this,”

They found the camp nearly a mile away from where they had bedded down for the night. There were five bodies, each with varying degrees of injury. Genevieve dismounted Fiend and examined the first corpse.

“Slavers,” she said after pulling up the man’s sleeve. He had a tattoo of a Tevinter dragon, a length of chain drawn in black ink underneath it. This particular slaver had had his head broken open. Some of the injuries were less gruesome, but no less fatal. One had been stabbed through the stomach, another had his throat cut.

“Well, can’t say I feel sorry for them, Maker take them.” The Prince muttered and then said a prayer; Blackwall noted that it was not for the slavers, but for their victims.

“Infighting, maybe?” Varric asked.

“There’s one set of horse tracks,” Mahanon noted. “And five sets of prints over there,” he pointed to a bush had been clearing tramped down.

“I think they might have stumbled in on the wrong person,” Genevieve mounted Fiend and turned away from the destruction. “There are probably more of them out there somewhere. We better keep our guard up.” She turned to Mahanon. “Mahanon, I know your Keeper told you to take us to the border, but now that we know its slavers, something must be done. Varric, can I barrow some parchment and ink?”

Varric dug around in his bag and handed her a piece of paper and his inkwell and quill. She used her saddle as a board and quickly wrote a note. She took a stick of green wax from her bag and gently melted it on the paper before carefully pressing her ring to it. She gave it a second to dry before handing it to Mahanon.

“Speak to your Keeper if you must, but I ask you to take that the Kirkwall or any other city and put that in the hands of the first Inquisition soldier you see, a scout preferably. If they don’t listen then tell them Nightingale’s littlest bird spotted a pack of wolves in Planasene. They’ll see this letter sent to Skyhold and hopefully send out a patrol.”

Mahanon smirked. “A pack of wolves?”

“Rabid ones.” She growled. Blackwall smirked. She had always said that once stability had been returned to Thedas she would turn the Inquisition’s All Seeing Eye towards slavers.

“Alright,” Mahanon then dipped his finger in the inkwell and took her hand. “Head north from here, in two miles you should come across a hunter’s trail. Once you find a tree marked with this symbol,” he drew it on top of her hand. “You’ve found the path. Follow it and it should lead you to the main road.”

“Okay,” Genevieve nodded. “Be careful,”

“You too, Inquisitor.” Then they parted ways.

When the elf was out of sight and earshot, Genevieve mounted her dracolisk, turned to Blackwall. Her blue eyes had turned wild and wrathful—he’d seen that look in the Arbor Wilds and before the final showdown with Corypheus. She would not be deterred from her course, nor would she let up her attack.

“Let’s hunt some slavers,” she growled; a beautiful and righteous snarl on her lips. Blackwall couldn’t help but smirk. _Woe to the Inquisition’s enemies_ , and he spurred Warden after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a nod to my beta, enc0432.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments/kudos are always appreciated!


	8. Chapter VIII: Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to my Beta, who put up with me during another hard semester. And my readers, you're very appreciated!

_**Chapter VIII – Cassandra** _

Cassandra’s dapple grey war horse was the oldest member of the Inquisition’s stables. The beast had been with her through her search for Hawke, the conclave, and the war with Corypheus. He was a noble creature, proud with age and hardened by battle.

For the past few weeks he seemed like the only loyal friend she had.

The Inquisitor’s impromptu departure from Skyhold was beyond Cassandra’s realm of understanding. To so lightly abandon her post like that? Never had Cassandra seen her be so irresponsible—well that wasn’t true, there was one _other_ case, but it worked out alright and therefore could be forgiven.

While Cassandra was upset about the Inquisitor simply leaving in the middle of the night, she was more upset that she hadn’t been _invited_. Cassandra knew that most people thought of her as some prudish, military hard-ass, but she had never thought that the Inquisitor would think of her like that. It stung more than Cassandra would ever admit.

_She didn’t tell you because she thought you would stop he_ r, she told herself. Cassandra wasn’t sure what she would have done if the Inquisitor had told her of her plan. On one hand, it was blatant disregard of her position as Inquisitor; on the other it was brave—stupid, selfish maybe—but aiding an ally was an honorable pursuit.

Cassandra had tracked the Inquisitor from Amaranthine to Kirkwall. She wasn’t sure if taking the dracolisk had been an oversight on the Inquisitor part, or if she had done it on purpose. But it was easy to track a person mounted on one of those reptilian beasts—a dracolisk was an unforgettable sight.

Tracking them out of Kirkwall had been easy, but now that they were in the Planasene Forest it had become nearly impossible to trace them. The storm had been the worst part; aside from the way it soaked her clothes and left her shivering, it had destroyed any tracks the Inquisitor and her companions had made. Drawing on how much she knew about the Inquisitor, she knew that even in the rain she would keep going. So Cassandra did too. Now that they were away from major city centers she intended to catch up and hopefully join the group.

She kept going until she was nearly out of the forest. It was dark and cold and she was starting to worry that she had missed them.

Finally, with the wet and the cold catching up with her, she was forced to stop. It was stupid to light a fire, but her clothes were soaked and she was chilled to the bone. She couldn’t sleep, even when she tried.

And in the end, she was lucky she didn’t.

The men stumbled into her camp. They smelled of alcohol and sweat. They looked like slavers with their bits of mismatched armor, ratty clothes—and then Cassandra saw the dragon and chain tattoo on their leader and her fears were confirmed. She wondered how long they had been watching her.

_How could I be so foolish?_ She touched the pommel of her sword.

“Well, well,” said the leader—he was missing some teeth. “Did your daddy let you barrow his sword?”

“Back away,” Cassandra growled, drawing her sword. “By order of her Worship, the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan it is my duty to arrest you,” she would still invoke her name, despite her failing, the Inquisitor was a woman of law and order and honor. Cassandra had faith in her the same way she had had faith in Divine Justinia.

 They laughed and Cassandra took her shield from her back. It looked like it would be five against one—she liked her odds. “I know you are slavers,” she hissed.  

“Why don’t you just put that frogsticker down, sweetheart? We don’t bite.” Missing teeth chuckled.

Cassandra did not bother holding back her disgusted grunt. No one in their right mind would dare to call her _sweetheart_. Not one of them had taken notice of her heavy armor or her stance. They were not trained soldiers, just fools who’d gotten caught up in the riches Tevinter paid out for fresh bodies.

“It’s dangerous out in these woods, you know.” Another man said, he wore a Templar’s helm. “There are knife-ears about, and wolves. Come with us and we’ll keep you safe.”

That was almost amusing. “Do I look like I need help?” she asked.

“Little girl out in the woods like this,” missing teeth sneered. “They’re always in trouble.”

And that was amusing. _Little girl_ , she thought, _idiots._

She just needed one of them to lunge. When one of the slavers began stepping towards the side she saw her chance to take the initiative. With reflexes honed by years of combat, Cassandra moved her footing to mirror their leader, threw her shield and up and struck the man side-stepping towards her.

He let out a scream when her sword met flesh, then bone, and left his arm dangling by a string of meat and skin. They all appeared in shock, each man completely unaware of the wasp nest they’d stumbled into.

Missing teeth drew his daggers and his Templar helmed friend charged with his long sword. But he was clumsy with the weapon and hardly able to hold it right. Cassandra stepped away and let the man’s weight bring him down. Her sword took him in the stomach; she used her shield to push his bleeding corpse from her blade before raising it to block an attack by missing teeth.

Cassandra pushed missing teeth back. He went off balance and fell to the ground. His other two friends tried to tackle her. She smashed her shield into the first and broke his jaw against the iron and wood before slicing his throat open. The other one tried to turn around but he was too late, Cassandra finished him with a blow that might have cleaved an unarmored man in half.

Missing teeth made one last desperate attack with his daggers; Cassandra knocked him back to the ground with the heel of her boot and then used the pommel of her sword to finish him. His corpse fell into the meager fire she had been tending, it hissed out, leaving her in total darkness.

Cassandra closed her eyes and adjusted to the dark. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t stay here. Quickly, she cleaned her blade and shield on the clothes of a fallen slaver before she went for her horse and led him off into the dark night.

XXXX

Cassandra had never slept in a tree before, it hadn’t been pleasant, but at least she’d gotten a chance to rest. The rain had come to an end and now the sun was drying the forest as best it could. She mounted her horse and ate a small breakfast of salt pork and a few crackers while she rode. The forest was thinning and the path becoming less rocky and easier on her horse.

Nevertheless, she rode until dark and was forced to find a relatively safe tree and climbed up for the night. She caught a few hours of sleep before starting out again before dawn.

By midday, the forest gave way to farmland. Cumberland was the nearest major population center, but it was surrounded by small hamlets and villages. Now that she was out of the woods she spotted people. No one paid her much attention—she had chosen not to wear her Inquisition armor. Her simple Seeker plate mail was enough protection for her and easier on her body during travel.

She spotted a farmer and his son tending their summer fields. She stopped at the rough wooden fence they had constructed around their farm. “Excuse me,” she called out.

The farmer stopped his work and looked up. “Cumberland is down that way, keep on the road and you can’t miss it,” he said it in the manor of a man used to sending travelers on their way.

“That is not what I need.” Cassandra reined in her anger. It was not the farmer’s fault that she had not yet found the Inquisitor. “I’m looking for a woman—a mage. She would have short brown hair, be riding on a reptilian beast. A dracolisk. Have you seen any such creature?”

“A what?” the farmer looked at his son and they shared a smirk. “Never heard of a draco-thingy.”

“It’s the size of a horse, green and scaly like a dragon.”

The farmer shook his head. “Nope. Never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you for your time then,” Cassandra was about to start on her way again when she turned back to the man. “Where’s the closest village beside Cumberland?”

“I suppose it’s the one before the crossroads where the highway splits towards Orlais and Nevarra.”

Cassandra nodded. “Thank you,” and continued on her way.

Certain now that she had missed her friends, Cassandra decided the best thing to do was to hunker down in village that the Inquisitor would be force to go through. She kept on even past midnight and found what she assumed was the village the farmer had told her about.

It was cozy, but obviously wealthy village. Travelers on their way to any of the major cities probably stopped in to rest, buy supplies, or spend a night at the inn. Even though it was late, she knocked on the inn door and it was promptly answered by a matronly old woman.

“You’ve missed supper but my boy will put your horse up and we have a room.”

Cassandra paid the woman for her room and for breakfast. “I may stay again tomorrow,” when the woman hesitated, she offered; “and I will pay you in advance for your trouble.”  She laid a few extra coins on the table.

The woman nodded. “Agreed.” Cassandra saw her horse put away and fed before she retired to her room and fell into deep, blissful sleep.

She slept though breakfast, but the innkeeper offered her lunch in place of it. It was decent fare, fresh bread and tangy goat cheese with a summer vegetable soup. The inn must have made enough money to buy quality ingredients. When she finished eating Cassandra asked directions to the village Chantry.

“In the Square,” the innkeeper told her.

Cassandra found it without any fuss. It was a simple wooden structure; the most decorative feature was the carving of Andraste’s sacrifice on the double doors. The windows were plain, leaded glass, and inside the pews were made up of roughhewed planks nailed together. A larger than life statue of Andraste holding up the eternal flame was usually a staple of any Chantry, but the one here was a smaller, life sized stone carving. Upon the altar before the statue was a poor box and a place to light incense.

This was the kind of Chantry that Cassandra preferred. Unassuming. Quiet. Full of simple faith and devotion. The soaring towers of the Grand Cathedral were marvelous and awe-inspiring; but these tiny village Chantries were marvelous and inspiring in their own humble ways.

Cassandra didn’t bother with the incense. Instead she kneeled and said her prayers—for the people of Thedas, for the Inquisition and the Chantry, for her friends. No matter how angry the Inquisitor made her, no matter how hurt and betrayed she felt, she would always pray for her, always care for her, always admire her. The burden Genevieve Trevelyan had taken on was not one that could be taken lightly. As a newly freed mage she might have simple gone off on her own and enjoyed her freedom, but instead she had chosen to tie herself to the Inquisition, even taking on the mantle of leadership.

They were alike in that way. Their personal desires came second in the grand scheme of things. When called to serve, they answered, no matter the cost. And that was something worth admiring.

With her prayers finished, Cassandra found herself wandering the village. She hoped to catch sight of her friends. Deep down, she feared that she had missed them and that she might never catch up with them. She knew if she didn’t find them within the week she would have to return to Skyhold and…ultimately Mother Delphine.

The thought of going back to Skyhold with nothing but Divine training to greet her made her feel sick. She did not resent being selected as Divine; in fact she was certain it was providence. The destruction at the conclave, the death of Most Holy, founding the Inquisition anew, even the selection of Genevieve Trevelyan as Inquisitor had happened for a reason. It was the Maker’s will. Even though it felt as if she had no control over these things; the belief that it was all slated to be brought her comfort.

Feeling tired again, she started for the inn. A bath and more sleep would do her some good.

Cassandra noted a group of children playing outside the inn. She stopped and pulled two copper from her pocket. “You there, boy,” she called pointing at the eldest of them.

“Yes Messere?” the boy responded. Polite, he must have belonged to one of the village store owners.

“I need you to keep an eye out for someone,” she held out the two coppers. “If you see a mage riding a dragon-like creature I need you to come to me immediately. She’ll be with a man with a black beard, a beardless dwarf, and a man with a Starkhaven accent. If you see them, you come tell me and I’ll give you a silver.”

That got the boy’s eyes bright. “Aye, Messere.” He smiled and accepted the two coppers but she could tell he was hungry for more coins. “You staying at Granma’s inn?”

“Yes,”

The boy nodded. “I’ll keep a good look out, Messere,” and then he rejoined his friends in their game.

Cassandra didn’t like leaving the job to another, let alone a boy, but she needed more rest. The ride through Planesene and the fight with the slavers had caught up with her. She needed another night’s sleep and another good meal. She paid the matron for another two days—all in advance—and went up to her room and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	9. Chapter IX: The Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta is an awesome force to be reckoned with, my best friend, and the only Borderland’s partner I ever need. 
> 
> You guys are pretty cool too, I always appreciate feedback! Thanks for reading!

**Chapter IX – The Inquisitor**

Genevieve was not a tracker. She didn’t know how to follow the signs of animals, two legged or otherwise, nor did she consider herself the kind of woman who had the patients for it. But Blackwall was an avid hunter and Sebastian learned to track when he was a boy. Between the two of them they had traced the slavers north through the forest and away from the main road. 

According to Blackwall they had two carts driven by double oxen, four pack mules, and only three horses. Looking on the slaver’s encampment now, she was amazed at how accurate he had been.

“Looks like twenty-six men,” Blackwall whispered. His presence beside her was comforting. Even though she knew he didn’t like this plan, he hadn’t said a word about it. Although, in retrospect, they had been in stickier situations than this. She looked down at her hand—her _marked_ hand—opened and closed it. She wanted to use it, especially on these bastards.

In truth it was probably better to wait for Inquisition soldiers to handle this, but ever since seeing those dead little ones on the road… Children cut down like animals—an anger had settled in her belly. She’d been angry before, to varying degrees. Corypheus had made her blood boil, and the idea of slavery had always upset her. But this? This was _different_. This was an untamed fury so harsh and loud that it drowned out the demons whispering to her from across the veil.

She’d thought about it all day yesterday. This new anger was wild and blood thirsty and it renewed whenever her mind drifted to those murdered elven children. Young lives, _cut down_ , like wheat for harvest. It had wakened a primal fury. _A woman’s wrath_ —Blackwall had called it when she confided in him the other night. He maintained it was the worst of all furies, and was glad not to be on the receiving end of it.

Of all the things Genevieve had ever wanted since she’d been freed of the Circle was a family. She wanted children of her own more than anything this world could give. Being Inquisitor, being Right Hand of the Divine—all these things paled in comparison to the desire of being called _mother_. She wanted a family with Blackwall. Together they would set up a loving home, and give their children all the things she didn’t have when she was young. She’d seen those children and seen them as hers.

 _How can I call myself a mother with monsters like these running about?_ She tightened her grip on her staff. These men at least, would face justice.

Blackwall had his sword and shield in hand, he looked at her. Even though it was dark she could see his eyes. They seemed to say; _“we can do this,”_ even though he obviously didn’t like their odds, he stood by her. That encouraged her. She closed her left fist. Mark of the Rift would put the fear of the Maker into those bastards. They just needed to wait for Sebastian to return.

“So,” Varric whispered from her other side. “When I write this do I say they tugged the wrong dragon’s tail or would you rather it be a bit more blunt?”

“I don’t know what to be more upset about; the fact that you’re writing about me or that you just compared me to a dragon.” It was a joke, a feeble attempt at lightening the mood.

They were silent for another few minutes. Genevieve counted the men again, tried to see who was on guard, and if they had people in the cages. The slavers had spent much of the night celebrating. It felt safe to assume they had captives, but they had no idea how many until Sebastian returned.

“Varric, you’re not going to like this,” the Prince whispered when he joined them. He didn’t wait for the dwarf to ask; “It’s Merrill.”

“ _What?_ ” Varric nearly yelled, he clapped his hands over his mouth and then whispered desperately. “Daisy? No it can’t be, she said she was supposed to be in Kirkwall.”

“I’m damn sure it’s her.” Sebastian growled, fire in his voice. He started testing his bow.

“I should have stopped in on her when we were there,” Varric hissed. “I should have asked Aveline.” He began loading Bianca with new found vigor.

“Aveline would have told us if she’d know Merrill had left,” Sebastian offered.

“Damn it Daisy. You promised me you’d stay put.”

Genevieve cleared her throat. “Merrill is the—”

“The _adorable, air headed, blood mage elf_ ,” Varric answered, quoting his own book.

“Right,” she nodded, trying to recall Merrill from when she read _Tales of the Champion._

“So how many guards?” Blackwall asked in his _we-need-to-get-back-on-topic_ voice.

“They’ve got four around the carts. Two of them were sleeping, two of them still drinking. I didn’t see any around the perimeter. I think they think they’ve gotten away with this,”

“Got any idea on their leaders? Do they have a mage?” Genevieve scanned the camp again. She didn’t see any signs of magic, but she would be ready for it just in case.

“Didn’t see a mage,” Sebastian notched an arrow to his bow and took a crouched position. “Their leader is in the tent at the center of camp, I think.”

They all looked at Genevieve. “What’s the plan?” Varric gave Bianca a final jerk and locked her firing mechanism into place.

“Blackwall and I will initiate contact,” Genevieve muttered, she was still looking down at the camp. “I’ll open a rift; Blackwall will act as a distraction while you and Sebastian unlock the cages.”

“Alright,” Varric chuckled darkly. “Hold on Daisy,” he whispered and followed Sebastian into the dark.

Blackwall placed his sword on the ground and reached for Genevieve’s hand. He gave each knuckle a kiss and then took up his sword again.

“Be careful,” Genevieve whispered as he got his feet and ran the opposite direction from Varric and Sebastian.

Genevieve picked up her staff and crept closer to the camp. She began counting seconds. _One. Two. Three_. Another few, slow steps. _Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen_. _Fourteen._ Right on fifteen Blackwall’s horn cut through the night. Heads snapped south, men dropped their food and drink and began taking up their weapons.

 _Sixteen. Seventeen._ Another blast. _Eighteen._ They were grouping, heads swiveling around as they tried to locate the sound; the leader had emerged from his tent. _Nineteen._ Genevieve now kneeled at the edge of the camp. _Twenty._ She jumped up and with her left hand pulled open a small rip in the air.

The rift opened and slavers screamed in fear as it vacuumed up their companions. Genevieve saw Blackwall charge out of the bushes, sword and shield raised as he taunted the leader into combat.

“For the Inquisition!” Genevieve cried and let a lightning spell loose. It looked as if it struck wildly, but she could control each bolt and which target they hit. Using her staff to clear away exhausted energies, she sent a few spells into the fray.

“Kill the mage!” Someone roared.

“You can try!” Genevieve didn’t see the man who shouted it, but she answered back all the same. She Fade stepped across the camp, confusing the enemy. Quickly, she raised her hand and summoned a fire spell, three tents burst into flame at her command sowing further pandemonium.

A rogue came at her, daggers raised. She wasn’t the best at close combat, but Blackwall and Cassandra had helped her learn to stay alive. Genevieve knew she wasn’t strong enough to block the attack, so she turned her heel and rotated around to get out of his way. With his back to her now, she used the head of her staff to throw him off balance before using the blade on the other end to finish him.

Stabbing them was so much harder than simply casting a spell, but she pulled her blade from the corpse, blood dripped from the end. She gave her staff a flick to keep it from dripping onto her boots. She drew up a wall of ice to cut off two charging tower shields and turned away to deal with a swordsmen.

She thought she had time, but one of the shields had changed direction at the last minute and maneuvered around the wall. The swordsman panicked when she threw a terror spell into his face, he dropped his sword but lashed at out her, his fist connecting with her jaw. Despite the pain, she felt glad that he’d hit her, his blow knocked her off balance and out of the way of a downward slice from a tower shield. The swordsman took the blow instead.

Temporarily stunned at what he had done to his comrade, the shield wavered in his attack giving Genevieve the opportunity to press the offensive. She set her hand to the ground and ice grew from her fingertips, grabbed hold of the tower shield and clawed up his body. He screamed as the ice grew up his legs like ivy and then wrapped around his chest until his cries were cut off.

Getting to her feet, Genevieve had a chance to survey the battlefield. She and Blackwall were not fighting alone now. With all the commotion, none of the slavers realized that their captives had been loosed until it was too late. Elves, and even a few humans, took up whatever weapons they could find and joined the fight.

“Dread Wolf take you!”

“You said it, Daisy!” Varric laughed, he was standing side-by-side with a little elven mage. Her black hair was dirty and she was covered in cuts and bruises, but she looked lively....and mad.

Genevieve turned to find Sebastian; he was holding his own at the edge of the camp. Blackwall was still in combat with the leader. He had a bleeding cut on his forehead and was taking a beating to his shield but she could tell he was biding his time and waiting for the opportune moment to strike back.

Now certain her companions were alright, Genevieve returned to the fray. She threw her arms wide for a barrage and then threw out another storm spell. It was a wild and chaotic mess. Aware that they were losing, many of the slavers threw down their arms and made a run for the safety of the forest; others fell to their knees and begged mercy.

Genevieve called for the fighting to stop, but when their leader refused to throw down his sword, Blackwall was forced to press the offensive. Blackwall slapped the man with the flat of his blade, dropped him to his knees with a blow from his shield, and shoved his sword into the slaver’s chest.

He drew his blade out; “Anyone else want to test the Inquisitor’s patience?” he grunted. She could see he’d taken a few blows and even though she was supposed to be their leader, she went to him and drew him into her arms. “I’m alright,” he muttered, he sounded exhausted. “Just hit me a few times, is all.”

The elven mage, Merrill, Genevieve assumed, called for her people to put the slavers in the carts and to tend the injured. Genevieve guided Blackwall to a fallen log the slavers had been using as a bench. She made him sit down so she could tend him.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have let you fight him alone,” she whispered taking a potion from her belt and putting it in his hands.

“I’m all right, Genevieve.” He tried to stop her from fussing but she knocked his hand back and dabbed the cut on his forehead with her handkerchief. “It’s alright, little bird,” he put his hand on her cheek but it didn’t deter her ministrations.

“Oh, little bird? That’s such a cute nickname; did you come up with that one, Varric?” Merrill asked as she and dwarf approached them.

“That one is all Hero’s, Daisy. It’s an exclusive,” Varric, Genevieve noted, seemed to be in a much better mood now that he knew the elf was safe.

“It’s very sweet,” Merrill smiled and sat down on the log next to Blackwall and looked them up and down. “You must be in love,” Genevieve would have smiled if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Blackwall. “I’m Merrill, thank you for your help,”

“Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan; she’s a good friend, Daisy.” Varric said. “He’s not a baby, Inquisitor. Let him rest a bit, Daisy and some of her people could use a healing potion too.”

Blackwall took Genevieve’s hands in his and kissed her knuckles. “Varric will get me something to drink, tend to the others.” But before he let her go he made his own inspection and only let go of her hands when he was satisfied that she had not been injured.

Genevieve finally turned away from him and looked over Merrill. “A friend of Varric and Sebastian’s is a friend of mine,” Merrill smiled again. It must have hurt; her face was covered in bruises. The slavers had done a number on her, probably kept knocking her out whenever she woke in order to keep her from using her magic.

“Here,” Genevieve gave her a potion from her belt.

The elf took sip from the vial, “There’s mint in this,” she was surprised.

“Yes,” Genevieve said, she wiped the blood from Merrill’s cheek. “It helps with the taste, and I noticed that some of my troops were feeling ill after they drank it so the mint settles their stomachs,”

“My Keeper used to do that with her potions, it’s so nice to know that someone else does it as well,”

Genevieve nodded. She was trying to remember what Varric had said about Merrill beyond the fact that she had dabbled in blood magic. _Dabbled_ was the word—she had apparently quit doing it at Lady Hawke’s behest. Still, it made Genevieve nervous. She knew she would be keeping an eye on the elven mage, even if she was deemed safe.  

“Did they break anything?” Genevieve asked, taking the elf’s wrists and feeling up and down her arms for breaks. “I’m not a very good healer, but I can set bones and wrap wounds.”

“I don’t think so,” Merrill stood up and took Genevieve’s left hand in hers. “This is the marked one isn’t it?” she asked, fingers tracing her palm. “I heard about the Inquisition from Varric, he told me about a mage leading a war effort. I could hardly believe it, a mage!”

Before she could say anything else, Sebastian came up and Merrill practically jumped into his arms. “Oh, Sebastian! I’m so happy to see you! If you all hadn’t have come along I don’t know what would have happened!” The Prince hugged her back and then she kissed his cheek. “You grew a beard,” she noted happily. “And where is Hawke, I’ve missed her so,”

Sebastian’s face fell as if he dreaded having to tell Merrill what may or may not have befallen Lady Hawke. Genevieve turned away, thinking that he might have wanted to speak to Merrill privately. She turned her attention to the injured.

There were surprisingly few people hurt. According to one of the former captives, once Merrill went down they had surrender and been shuffled into the cages soon after. When Genevieve asked why a bunch of city elves would be wandering in the woods. He answered with a shrug and said “Kirkwall wasn’t safe.”

By dawn the injured had been dealt with, Varric and Sebastian were having a private conversation with Merrill, and most everyone was asleep save the few who had volunteered to stand watch.

Blackwall had taken a seat by the cage full of slavers, a hard grimace on his face. Genevieve came to sit by him. He put his arm around her shoulder and brought her in close. She leaned in to him, soaking up his warmth. They weren’t going to get any sleep tonight, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t close her eyes and rest a bit.

“What do we do about them?” Blackwall asked nodding his head towards the cages. Most of their prisoners had finally succumbed to sleep.

Genevieve yawned. Battle fatigue was setting in, her hands felt weak and her head heavy. She hadn’t eaten since noon yesterday but had no desire to get up and find something. “I’d give them a trial, I suppose.” She muttered. “But it seems silly; we caught them in the act.”

“Aye,” they kept their voices low, Blackwall’s beard tickled her as he spoke. “Should I find some rope?”

She was almost too tired to think about it. Judgments came natural to her—they were hard and she hated being the one to decide on a person’s life or death—but she did them with an almost insufferable ease.

“I can’t leave them here,” she whispered against Blackwall’s chest. “I can’t wait with them either. They’re guilty.” She didn’t want to leave his warmth just yet so she held him to her for a few more moments before forcing herself to her feet.

Genevieve cleared her throat and took the head of her staff and tapped it against the iron bars. Every eye in the camp turned to her. She addressed the former captives first.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, Sealer of the Breach; the Inquisition represents justice, law, and order. Who best can tell me what befell you before this?”

Merrill rose from where she, Sebastian, and Varric were having their talk. “I speak for this group,” she said. Genevieve nodded for her to continue. “I know I promised Varric that we would stay in Kirkwall, but things started getting…”

“Hostile,” Varric offered.

“Yes, hostile, and Aveline had told me if there was trouble she would send her guards, but they’re spread so thin and it was getting hard to keep everyone safe. I had to move us.” She paused to try and collect her thoughts. “I sent a letter to Hawke in Starkhaven, but I never got an answer. So I thought that perhaps we could find some safety and comfort in the forest. It was a mistake.”

Genevieve nodded. “When did they capture you?” she asked gently.

“Only a few days ago. I heard them talk about how they’d attacked a Dalish clan but got chased off by monsters—then they found us. Snuck up on us in the middle of the night, killed the watchmen, raped some, beat some. I was unconscious for most of it.”

Genevieve swallowed hard. She nodded and tried to keep her face as passive as she could. They’d killed children, slain innocents, beaten, raped, and captured Merrill’s people—she hoped they had enough rope. But a trial was not a trial without a defense. The accused had the right to speak for themselves.

She turned to the slavers. “Who would speak for you?” she asked, the men spoke among themselves for a few minutes until a man came forward.

“I would.” He said.

“Are you from Tevinter?” she asked. “Did you mean to transport these people there to be slaves?”

“Does the truth matter?”

“It does.” She growled.

“Yes.” He answered, no point in hiding it, they were caught red handed. “We’re sanctioned by Tevinter, our absence will go noticed. Set us loose and we’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

Genevieve didn’t believe a word of it. She shook her head. “So you can regroup and come back? Maybe nab the Dalish clan you attacked a few days ago? No, serah. I represent the Inquisition and upon my ascension to Inquisitor I declared slavery a sin before the Maker and the law.” She had never written a law before, nor did she expect anyone to follow it, but her people had been the bane of slavers since she’d passed the edict. “In light of what I saw here and what was said; I have no choice but to sentence you to death.”

There were sudden cries of forgiveness, she ignored them and turned to Blackwall. “How much rope do we have?”

“We can hang three at the time.” He answered.

“I’ll get the horses,” she sighed, and took note of a tall oak at the edge of camp.

XXXX

She did not like displaying corpses. It was a savagery beneath the honor of the Inquisition, but with this she felt she had no choice. Three bodies, their sleeves cut so as to show off their slaver’s tattoos, she pinned a writ to one of the corpses. The missive was an explanation of their death, a reminder of the law, the punishment for breaking it, and at the end was her signature and her green wax seal. They hung them on the main road; anyone traveling this way would find it difficult to miss them.

With the slavers attended too it was time to sort through Merrill’s group. Varric and Merrill had argued for nearly an hour. She wanted to go with them, which meant leaving her people in Cumberland. There was no denying that Genevieve found it tempting to bring along another mage. But Merrill was the leader of the Kirkwall city elves and had a responsibility to them.

That thought was enough to send a wave of regret through the Inquisitor. _Going after Lady Hawke is the right thing to do,_ she told herself. But the further they got away from Skyhold and the less the demons tugged at her, the clearer her head got. And with a clear head she was beginning to see the trouble with her split-second decision to leave. Her advisors were probably furious—at least Cullen was. His letter in Kirkwall was cordial enough but there was an hasty, underlining acidic tone to his writing that had made her feel a bit like a runaway child whose brother was imploring her to come home.

Despite the occasional feeling of guilt that passed through her, she felt better. Skyhold had become suffocating—the constant dignitaries, the paperwork, the balance of warfare and diplomacy—and topping it all off was Cassandra’s expectation that she would take over as Grand Enchanter as well as be her Right Hand. Blackwall had had the right of it. She was running away. And the further she ran, the more manageable the demonic assault became. They were still there on the other side of the veil as they were with all mages. Their voices reaching out, teasing her, whispering, _clawing_. But years of training and practice kept them out, they were like childhood bullies, ignore them and they lose interest.

 _This is good for me,_ she thought, _I need this…like a vacation._

Although now, she felt she needed some rest. It would be hard to sleep in the daylight, but she thought that maybe she would bury her face in Blackwall’s chest and ignore the sun. 

Merrill’s people had put up a guard and Varric, Sebastian, and Merrill seemed content to argue for a time. She told them she needed some rest and that she would check in on their decision when she woke. They bid her goodnight, although Merrill corrected hers to “good morning” and then back to “good night” before apologizing for rambling.

Blackwall had already set up their tent. He was trying to massage his shoulder when she entered. He gave her a sheepish frown when she noticed he was naked. There was a pan of water and a bloody rag beside him. She tried to keep her sigh as worriless as possible as she made sure the tent flap was secure and started removing the more clunky bits of her armor.

She kneeled beside him and took up the rag. The water was cold so she used a warming spell on the cloth in her hand and cleared away some of the caked blood from his chest and face. Some gore had gotten into his beard, a mess that required patients, water, and a comb. Usually he did these things for himself, but right now she wanted to care him. He didn’t seem to mind very much now that they were alone.

“I saw that rogue go at you,” Blackwall hissed through his teeth. She was dabbing at the cut on his forearm.

“He got close, that’s all.” she told him. He didn’t mention the tower shield and the swordsmen and she thought that maybe he hadn’t seen it, but then he reached up and touched her cheek where the swordsman had punched her. She winced at his touch and he frowned.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” it was a demand, although he softened it with a loving tone.

She shook her head. “No, just a little banged up, nothing unusual.” He fixed her with a look that told her he thought she was lying. “I promise,” she pressed a series of kisses to his face until he relented.

Blackwall got to his feet and pulled on some sleeping clothes. She could hear the sound of his joints creaking as he moved. They weren’t even halfway to the Anderfels and already their adventures were taking a bodily toll. She should have taken them to Val Royeaux and towards Andoral Reach; the only true reason they had gone this way was the Prince’s vague hope that they might run into Hawke on her return journey or that she may have left more letters in the villages along the way.

When Blackwall sat back down, Genevieve curled against him. The sun was hitting their tent, warming the canvas and their sleeping furs. They held each other until sleep finally took them.

Genevieve was the first to wake. It was dark; she could see the glow of campfires around her and could smell meat cooking. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food but she dare not untangle herself from Blackwall’s embrace. She pressed against him but recoiled. Her bruised face felt hot and swollen.

 _He hit me harder than I thought_ ; she tentatively pressed her fingertips to her sore flesh. A poultice would fix any discoloring, but she would let it heal on its own. With battle fatigue still wearing on her limbs, she sat up and reached for one of her wineskins. She took a few sips before settling back into Blackwall’s arms. She did not go back to sleep though.

When Blackwall didn’t wake after an hours passing, she decided to get up without him. Outside the tent, the camp had calmed. There was a guard posted, but Varric, Sebastian, and Merrill had gone to bed. On a nearby fire, a covered pot sat on some warm coals. Inside was rabbit stew, or at least what she thought was rabbit stew. The slaver’s supplies had been opened and used for dinner it seemed.

Genevieve wasn’t terrible interested in learning what was in her dinner, she spooned it into a tin cup and tasted it. Definitely rabbit, she decided, thankful it wasn’t squirrel. Blackwall had the taste for it, and she would eat it if she was starving, but it was too exotic for her _refined palate_ , as Blackwall often teased.

When she finished her food she made herself some tea. She drank it in between sips of a health potion because she knew Blackwall would like that. It made her feel a bit better.

There was some slight shuffling coming from their tent, after a moment Blackwall emerged. He got himself something to eat and then sat down beside her. She edged closer to him so their bodies were pressed together.

“We’ll need to move on today,” Genevieve muttered.

“Aye,” Blackwall agreed. “You should get some more rest before we go,”

“We should be able to get a night in an inn soon, an actual bed would be nice,” she smirked.

“And privacy,” he flashed an impudent smirk.

“You’re incorrigible,” she chuckled. But privacy sounded nice, _very nice._

And just as she was beginning to nod off against his shoulder, a child’s scream broke through the camp. Both Genevieve and Blackwall jumped up, people stuck their heads through tent flaps, and the watchmen converged on the camp, fearful that someone had slipped past them. 

But it was no foe, just a little elven boy in the throes of a nightmare. He had run from his tent, shivering with fear. His mother ran after him. Genevieve found herself walking towards them, his tear streaked face reminding her to much of her younger self. Eight years old and tossed into a wine cellar—the sound of mailed Templar boots above, her father’s voice offering them money for the Rite of the Tranquility. An elven servant had freed her and taken her to the Circle where she turned herself in.

“Is your son alright?” she asked the woman.

The elven woman shook her head. “He’s my sisters, your Worship, she didn’t…” she trailed off, but Genevieve knew what she meant. His mother was dead. “He has nightmares, is all. I’ll keep him quiet next time,”

Genevieve frowned and shook her head. “It’s alright,” she told the woman and then kneeled before the boy. She smiled. “Hello, what’s your name?” she whispered and reached for the pouch on her belt, withdrew a sweet peppermint candy and offered it to him. He seemed unsure, his tear streaked face turned back and forth between his aunt and Genevieve.

Gently, Genevieve placed her hand on his shoulder when he didn’t answer. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“The Herald,” he hiccupped and rubbed a closed fist over his teary eyes. Her heart ached at the sight of him; they had run away from the danger of the city only to fall into the hands of slavers.

She pressed the candy into his hand. “This will make you feel better,” she told him softly. “At least, they help me when I get scared.”

He didn’t seem to believe that. “You don’t get scared, you’re the Herald.”

“What makes you say that? I get scared all the time,” she smiled, she’s seen her soldiers say the very same things to their own children. “Because it’s alright to have nightmares and be afraid, I just remind myself that there are people who need me,” she took another mint from her pouch and popped it into her mouth.

“I’m not brave,”

“Bravery doesn’t mean you aren’t scared,” she said. “You can be both. You’re aunt needs you to be courageous, can you do that for her?” he nodded slowly at first, and then more vigorously as if had come to understand what she meant. “Try the mint, I don’t just hand them out to everyone you know.” She stood and gave him a wink.

She turned and found Blackwall giving her an appreciative look. He smiled and put his arm over her shoulder when she got closer. “That was very kind of you, my lady.”

“When I went to the Circle I had nightmares for months.” She whispered as they took their seats by the fire. “One night I climbed out of bed and ran until I ran right into Ser Marband.” She chuckled. “I got lucky that it was him I ran into, and not some other Templar." They might have beaten her for it. Ostwick had been a comfortable Circle, but they had disciplined children with the rod more oft than not.

Blackwall nodded. “What did he do?” He already knew this story, but he always obliged when she told it.

“Took me to see Deborah, the Tranquil who worked the Circle garden.” Between Deborah and Ser Marbrand she’d gotten better, adjusted, and even started considering the Circle home after a time. “She gave me a candy and then sent me to bed, had my chore duties moved from the kitchen to the garden—probably for the best, cooking isn’t my forte.”

“I know,” Blackwall laughed and kissed her. “I’ve tried eating it,”

XXXX

“So I am afraid, as much as I want to go with you, I need to get my people someplace safe,”

Genevieve nodded with an understanding smile; Varric and Sebastian had woken at dawn and told her what they had finally agreed on. Merrill’s first priority was her people, even if she loved Hawke as a sister, she had other responsibilities. The worry now was where they would go. Genevieve had the simplest answer for that—Skyhold.

She wrote a letters while the others packed up the camp. The first was to be taken to a village with an Inquisition presence so a bird could take it to Skyhold and inform her advisors of the city elves arrival. The other was a missive that put them under the protection of the Inquisition, meaning the Inquisition troops were obligated to see them safely to Skyhold.

“Keep those letters safe, Daisy,” Varric said as Genevieve placed the signed and officially marked letters into Merrill’s hands.

“I promise,” the elf said, tucking them into her coat. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Genevieve nodded. “The Inquisition gives help to anyone who needs it,”

“I do hope you find Hawke, I miss her dearly.” She shook Genevieve’s hand and then kissed her cheek. The elf thanked her again and kissed Varric and Sebastian goodbye. Merrill would take her people back towards Kirkwall while Genevieve and her companions turned towards Cumberland.

They parted ways on the road. Genevieve let Fiend pick a comfortable pace. There was still a sense of underlining urgency, but the day was so nice Genevieve thought it a crime not to enjoy it. The sun had warmed the forest now that the storm was well and truly over. It lit the green canopy up and along the road were small patches of sun warmed grass.

Warden and Fiend walked neck and neck, the war charger was the only horse the dracolisk never dared take a snap at. Unable to take the silence, Genevieve took up a song. She knew all the words to _Andraste’s Mabari_ and was surprised when Sebastian took up the words as well.

“Skylar was always singing it, her father taught it to her,” the Prince answered when she asked. “Henry loves it, jumps up and down like a loon when she sang it to him—oh Henry is her dog,”

“How is that old slobbery monster?” Varric asked, smirking.

“Salt and pepper muzzle, he likes to sleep near the kitchen during the day. The cook slips him scraps,” Sebastian answered and then his voice turned sad. “I was hurt when Skylar left without a word, but not as much as that dog. Never in all my time have I seen a hound so miserable,” he frowned. “But I promised to bring his Ma back, and I intend to do just that.”

“I’ve always wanted a dog,” Genevieve tried to change the subject. She gave Blackwall a sly glance; he’d promised her a dog and had yet to follow through on it.

Blackwall gave an exasperated sigh, but she could see the trace of a smile under his beard. “I know, I know,”

They kept riding until the sun went down and made a small camp on the side of the road. By the afternoon of the next day they were finally out of the forest and on their way to civilization. Soon they would have to make their choice, follow the road to Andoral Reach or cut through Nevarra.

The forest had given way to farmland. Everywhere Genevieve looked there was summer wheat or corn being harvested and fall vegetables being planted. It was nice to see these places without the marring of war and death everywhere she went. No one paid them any mind, although a few farmers seemed wary of her dracolisk.

“What manner of beast is that?” a farmer asked when they stopped for directions. He eyed Fiend with suspicion.

“A dracolisk, serah,” Genevieve answered. “He’s relatively harmless,”

“A woman came through a few days back asking about a beast like that,”

Panic flooded Genevieve’s veins. She tried to calm herself. It may not be someone from Skyhold. It could very well be someone else looking for another noble mounted on a dracolisk. But that hardly held water—dracolisks were rare. Some might call her a fool for riding such a recognizable beast, but she could not make herself leave the creature in the barn. “Was she by herself?” she asked, the words came in a rush. “What did she look like?”

“Uh, she was alone. Had black hair…carried a sword I think. I didn’t pay her much attention,” he admitted.

Genevieve swapped a glance with Blackwall and Varric. They must have seen the panic in her eyes because Blackwall reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder and Varric said; “No way, she’d do that, she wouldn’t just…” but he trailed off because sending Cassandra to collect them was…ingenious on Cullen’s part. Genevieve had figured that they would send Harding or Leliana—but Cassandra? She wasn’t sure she was equipped to handle Cassandra.

“Did she have a scar?” Genevieve pressed, the farmer shrugged so she drew an invisible line one her face to match where Cassandra’s scar would have been. “Like this?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

It offered slight relief, but not much. As they rode on she tried to reason it away. Cassandra was training for the Sunburst throne; there was no way she would put herself in jeopardy just to stop her from going after Lady Hawke. Cassandra was impulsive and quick to anger, but she wasn’t irresponsible or stupid—she wouldn’t do that to Thedas, to Genevieve.

But then again…Cassandra _was_ impulsive.

“It’s probably one of Leliana’s scouts,” Blackwall said, reaching over and taking her hand. “The Seeker is a lot of things, but she isn’t stupid. She wouldn’t put herself in peril like this,”

Varric also tried to reassure her, but none of it was helping. Because whether she liked it or not, it was something Cassandra just might do. So when they rode into a village and found the only inn it came as no surprise when a boy jumped up from his game of jacks and went running for the inn door.

Genevieve stayed mounted, suddenly too weary to stand on her own. Cassandra, the soon-to-be Divine Victoria, stepped out of the inn with livid dark eyes, her arms crossed over her chest, and the angriest looking snarl on her lips.

“Cassandra,”

“Don’t you _Cassandra_ me,” the Seeker growled. “How dare you leave without so much as a word, how dare you abandon your post—never did I expect this from you— _never!”_ she pointed at Varric. “From the dwarf, perhaps, from Blackwall— _but you?_ For Andraste’s sake, you’re the Inquisitor. You can’t just leave without telling anyone where you’re going, sneaking out in the middle of the night like a farm girl off to visit the boy the next door.”

Genevieve let her say her piece before dismounting and handing her reins off to Blackwall. “Varric, Sebastian, get some rooms for the night,” Cassandra was a force that had to be taken head on. Although most of their fights had been solved without words, there was a simple understanding that they accepted each other’s faults and would always do their best to find a way to get over them and be friends again.

Genevieve did not feel that it would be like that this time.

A crowd was gathering now and night was upon them. Genevieve was doing her best not to look embarrassed.

“Cassandra if you have a room, I suggest we take this _there_ ,” she barked. Embarrassment was turning into anger. Anger that Cass would follow them out here; that she would lecture her like this, that the _future_ Divine had put herself in danger to go after them.

Without skipping a beat, Cassandra shuffled Genevieve into the inn and up the stairs to her room. “I can hardly wrap my head around what you were thinking,” she said, slamming the door shut.

Genevieve reeled around to face her. “You can’t wrap your head—are you mad?” Genevieve was well aware of her temper, and even though she did her best to keep it under control, right now she found herself so embarrassed and so angry she didn’t feel the need to keep a lid on it anymore. “You’re the Divine, Cassandra! _The Divine!_ And you came out here all on your own to lecture me? And I’m the _irresponsible_ one? You hold the whole fate of our Lady’s Church in your hands and I can’t—I can’t believe Cullen and the others let you come out here alone! I’ve been gone a few weeks and everything falls into the void!”

Cassandra fell silent. Her hands clasped together and she looked at the floor. Genevieve went wide-eyed and felt the air get sucked out of her. “Flaming Sword,” she cursed. The very idea that Cassandra had left Skyhold by herself without telling _anyone_ … “Cassandra, I left a note to tell them exactly where I was going.”

“And how was I supposed to know that?”

“I imagine if you’d bother to stay put for a few hours someone would have come along and told you,” Genevieve snapped. With the tables turned she was not going to let up. “And you’re here to lecture me about leaving in the middle of the night? Need I remind you that you are the Divine-elect, by next year you’re supposed to take the Sunburst throne and lead the Chantry—”

“And you are the Inquisitor,” Cassandra growled. “You are just as important, if not more.”

“We are not the same Cassandra, you’re the Divine. The world will continue to look to you long after I am gone,”

“Save that unassuming hero bullshit for Varric,” Cassandra said coldly. “The world needs you and your mark, coming out here like this, on some mad quest to save a man’s wife, it’s all ludicrous nonsense,”

“An ally asked me for help, I don’t ignore—”

“Why _do you_ think the Inquisition has an army?” Cassandra threw her arms up into the air, exacerbated.

“Oh you’re right, Cassandra, _I forgot_ ,” Genevieve did nothing to hold back her bitter tone. “An army is just the sort of thing we should march through a few counties; I don’t see why anyone would be bothered by that. I’m sure the King Wilhelm won’t even be the slightest bit annoyed when our army treks into the Anderfels on the off chance that we find Lady Hawke and all this based on the word of the _Prince of Starkhaven_ ,” she crossed her arms and smirked viciously while leaning against the wall. “In the words of my dear ambassador, Josephine— _diplomatic incident waiting to happen_.”

Cassandra recoiled slightly and a she made one of her trademark disgusted noises in the back of her throat “I see that arguing with you will get us nowhere,” she had turned a slight shade of red from her from the base of her neck to her ears.

“I could say the same of you,” Genevieve snarled. “You should probably get some rest,” she spat. “I want to be out of here in the morning,”

“We should be able to get a ship in Cumberland,”

Genevieve loosed a vicious and spiteful chuckle. She shook her head. “We’re going on according to my plan; I’m going to the Anderfels.”

“Even after I’ve come all this way to get you, you still insist on this folly?” Cassandra hissed through clenched teeth.

“If you’d like, _Most Holy_ , I could accompany you to Cumberland and find a few Inquisition soldiers to escort you back to Skyhold.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, _Inquisitor_. You insist on this foolish quest, so I will accompany you,”

“Fine,”

“ _Fine_.”

Genevieve, seething still, slammed the door behind herself. She heard the locks click into place as Cassandra sealed it. Just as she was about to head down to the common room below, Blackwall came up the stairs with a tray of food in hand. He looked her up and down, placed his free hand on her shoulder and guided her to their room.

The room was dark save for a few candles on the nightstands. Blackwall set the tray on a nearby table and rocked awkwardly on his heels. He was trying to think of what to say, perhaps berate her for fighting with Cassandra, or to offer comforting words. Instead he pointed to the washtub in the corner of the room.

“I had them bring up water for you,” he said softly.

“Thank you,” she whispered back and started removing her clothes. While she lowered herself into the steaming water, Blackwall started fixing them something to eat.

Genevieve watched him with hard eyes. She could feel herself holding back tears, she didn’t want to fight them, but she couldn’t cry because she was in the right. She knew it. _She had to be._

She and Cassandra had never fought like that before. Sure, they could be loud in their anger, but Genevieve had never spoken so cruelly to her, and vice versa. It tugged so painfully at her heart that she thought she’d taken an arrow to the chest. She wanted to tear it out, wanted to staunch the bleeding. She should have turned gotten up and turned around and demand Cassandra let her apologize. 

But she didn’t. She wanted to do this, not only for Lady Hawke and the Prince, but for herself. Because Skyhold had drawn all the air out of her and the demons were loudest when she was there. And with Cassandra’s wrath still raw and fresh they were starting to claw at her wounds; _this mission may very well have cost me my friend_ , she bit her lip in hope of keeping a sob back.

Quickly, she dunked her head under the water to hide the tears. When she came back up, Blackwall gave her a sympathetic glance.

“Am I the bad guy? Have I truly done something so terrible—”

“No, no, little bird. Don’t ever think like that.” He kneeled beside the tub and cupped her face. “You’ve helped a lot of people on this journey,” he kissed her cheek. “What would have happened had we not gone after those slavers? Varric’s friend would have been taken to Tevinter, or those Dalish would have all died fighting that rift. I hate that I have to share you with the world, Genevieve, but I accept it because I can’t stop you from being you,”

Genevieve nodded. Cassandra didn’t know about those things. Cassandra didn’t understand, _couldn’t understand._

“Finish washing,” Blackwall kissed her lips. “Then you should eat and we’ll get some rest.” When she finished bathing, Blackwall climbed into the tepid water and washed himself as well. Dinner was bread smeared with goat cheese and topped with a few slivers of ham, simple but filling.

Genevieve felt drained and achy when she crawled into bed. It was a relief to sleep in a bed, even if it was stuffed with straw instead of feathers. Blackwall made her feel safe and warm; it was always easier to sleep when he was around.

At dawn the made their decision to cut though Nevarra. Genevieve and Cassandra hardly spoke to each other as they turned towards Weisshaupt.

They had a long way to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus, we come to the end of part one. I will be taking a three week break in order to deal with some personal stuff, as well as make any finishing touches on the remainder of the story. But fear not; I shall return on 6/20/15 (June 20th), and Hawke Hunt, I hope, will return bigger and better with the promise of more POVs, more characters, and more plot development. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed part one. Part two is forth coming. Comments and kudos are always welcomed. Tell your friends, be good, and don’t forget to come back on the 20th!


	10. Chapter X: Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, Faye you said the 20th. Well alas; I will not be available on Saturday so here we are. This is the first chapter of “part II.” 
> 
> Major kudos to my beta, enco432. And to you, fair readers.

_**Chapter X - Dorian** _

Dorian woke to sound of birds and the warmth of the sun on his bedsheets. He yawned, stretched, languid as a cat, and groped the other side of the bed for trace of the Iron Bull. Bull rarely ever slept late, old habits, Dorian assumed, from his Ben-Hassrath days. Without haste, Dorian climbed out of bed and dressed. Bull would no doubt be in the tavern with his Chargers and Dorian wanted to speak with him before the daily war table meeting.

Despite all the fluster and worry over the Inquisitor’s disappearance, the Inquisition ran rather smoothly without her at the helm. He missed her, naturally, and would rather not be tied up in her paperwork and meetings—he was beginning to see why she’d left in the first place, to avoid being buried alive in missives and ornery Chantry officials and nobles. Still, he wanted her to come back as soon as possible. He’d been holding off going back to Tevinter for months now. He held off for Bull and for her, but he didn’t feel right leaving his homeland in such a state as it was. But he wouldn’t leave without her goodbye. That was for sure. He would not be like Solas.

Dorian went down to the kitchens for a bit of breakfast before making his way to the tavern. Bull was in his usual corner leaning heavily in his chair, a drink nearby. The qunari shifted in his seat, and reached over to an empty table and moved a chair for Dorian.

“You speak to Cole last night?” Bull asked, crossing his beefy arms over his chest.

“Yes,” Dorian sat down. “He said the same thing he said to Cullen and Sister Leliana,” For the past few weeks, everyone had tried to get Cole to tell them if he knew anything about the Inquisitor’s impromptu vacation. He said the same thing in one varying degree or another; that it was quieter the further she walked away. Dorian had an inkling as to what that meant, but he saw no sense in scaring everyone with base conjecture. “I don’t think we’re going to get anything else out of him.”

“He’s been keeping more to himself lately.” Bull added.

Dorian sighed. “She wrote that she had to do whatever it is she’s off to, I’m inclined to believe her. We really should let the matter be.”

“I think she got bored.” Bull grunted. “All that action and then suddenly it’s over,” he chuckled slightly. “Violence is addictive, Dorian. She got restless; she’ll come back when she’s ready.

“Try telling that to Cullen,” Dorian grumbled. The only person willing to see reason was Leliana. The Spymaster still refused to allocate scouts to hunt the Inquisitor down.

“Speaking of Red, did she tell you anything about her missing scouts?”

“The ones searching for the dragon?” Dorian asked. He’d heard they were a day overdue, but in mountainous terrain like the land around Skyhold it was expected. A rockslide or avalanche could easily waylay anyone.

“I wish we could have gone after that beast,” Bull laughed and thumped his chest. “Would have loved another good dragon fight,”

“Only you would consider that fun.”

Bull let out a great guffaw and slammed his palm to Dorian’s back a few times. “Like I said, kadan, violence is addicting,”

Dorian, still recovering from Bull’s back slap, stood up and straightened out his clothes. “We should probably get Sera, we have a meeting remember?”

“Sera’s been pouting since she got the news the boss left without her.” Bull stood and put their chairs back where they belonged. “I think deep down we all got a little…upset.”

Dorian was forced to agree. There was an underlying degree of jealousy that the Inquisitor had entrusted Blackwall, Cassandra, and Varric with her secrets and not the rest of them. Dorian hated to admit it, (even to himself,) that it felt like she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him where she was going or even invite him. She even left her note with Ser Marbrand and not one of her other friends.

“Well, I best go and talk to her,” Dorian sighed. He wasn’t really looking forward to speaking with Sera, it could be trying, even if she wasn’t upset. Slowly, Dorian hiked up the stairs and to her little corner room. He lightly tapped on the door, getting no response he knocked a little harder.

“Piss off!” Sera’s muffled voice cried.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You’re going to have to come out of there eventually, we could use you at the meetings,” they had been getting along just fine without Sera but Dorian found himself feeling guilty for not ensuring her participation. Sera was a handful, but she was still a part of the Inner Circle, still a friend.

“I said piss off,” something _thunked_ against the door.

“Sera all of us are upset you know.” He told her, pressing himself close to the door in hopes of making his words more intelligible. “I don’t think it was meant to be taken in insult. Something upset her—you said so yourself.” No response. “When she gets back you can tell her off, give her a true piece of your mind.”

Something else hit the other side of the door, then again, and the third finally pierced through the wood. It was the tip of an arrow, Dorian backed away and sighed. “Very well then,” and he made his way back down the stairs. Bull was waiting for him and together they walked up the keep.

Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana were already at the respective places around the table. From then on it was a blur of dust, parchment, and ink. Duchess So-and-So wanted a meeting with the Inquisitor, the Sisters from the Chantry of Nowhere-Important wanted to make a pilgrimage to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and wanted money to finance it, Comte Nothing-Worth-Remembering would be ever so pleased if the Inquisitor attended his birthday, _etcetera, etcetera, etcetera._

And that was just foreign affairs—there was military work to do after lunch and the missing scouts still hadn’t shown up. By dinner Dorian was exhausted. But that was how it was for the next week. Dorian was once again forced to think about how it was the Inquisitor managed to stand it all. 

Midweek they kept their meetings short so that everyone would have a chance to recharge. And as they did once a week, Dorian and Cullen set out their chess board in the garden’s gazebo. Dorian appreciated the challenge Cullen provided him. The Commander was an excellent tactician and he never gave Dorian anything less than his all.

The first match ended with the Commander’s victory although Dorian took the second game. They were twenty minutes into their third game when Josephine came to find them.

“An interesting group of refugees arrived this morning,” Josephine told them; Dorian thought she looked worried, although he was confident in her ability to handle anything. “Their leader has asked to speak to the Inquisitor,”

“What did you tell him?” Cullen set his knight back down, their game forgotten.

“That the Inquisitor was off on an important mission and will be happy to speak with him when she returns,” she crossed her arms and leaned against the one of the gazebo’s pillars. “He then asked to speak to the second in command,”

Cullen sighed and stood. “Raincheck, Dorian?”

“Of course,” Dorian stood and smoothed his wrinkled tunic. “I had you on the run anyway, no need to embarrass our esteemed commander,”

Cullen gave a snort of laughter and looked down at the board. He moved his knight into position leaving Dorian’s king in a perfect checkmate. “You were saying?” he laughed.

Brushing the defeat off, Dorian followed the two advisors to the main hall. The hall was mostly empty save for a few guards. Two men were standing nearer to the throne. A young man, perhaps only a few years younger than Dorian himself, was acting as the crutch of an elderly fellow. The two men turned as they approached. The elder carried with him a gnarled wooden staff in his right hand; he was using to hold himself up. He sported a white beard so long it might elicit a bit of jealousy from Blackwall, his face was marred by terrible burn, his back was bowed, and he sported several other noticeable disfigurements indicative of torture.

The old man smiled; he was missing several teeth. “I am…” he took a deep wheezy breath. “Very sorry to bother you, my Lords and Lady,” he took another gravelly breath.

“Easy, Grandfather,” the youth muttered. They both had Orlesian accents, Dorian noted, although the old man didn’t look to be of Orlesian decent. “Sorry, my Lords, the walk here was very hard for my Grandfather.”

“Of course,” Josephine called for a chair and the old man gratefully sat down. “What brings you here, Serah?”

“We’re refugees from the Dales,” the youth answered. “Simple peasant folk, driven from our homes by the Freemen,”

It seemed like so long ago that Dorian, Varric, and Blackwall had gone with the Inquisitor to uproot the Freemen. Naturally, as with all outlaw-bandit types, cutting the head off the snake merely allowed three more to grow. He pitied them; the old man looked like he had been through quite the ordeal. Dorian could tell he was a mage—not a strong one, but a mage nonetheless.

“Oh, I am sorry, my Lords; I am Toulouse, and this is my Grandfather Aramis,”

“Commander Cullen, Lady Josephine, and Lord Dorian Pavus, a personal friend of our Inquisitor.” Cullen introduced them.

Aramis looked up at the commander; his eyes were blue but glazed, still, Dorian could see a bit of wit in them. “Your Inquisition sent most of the Freemen out of our land…” the old man took a deep breath. “But some of the stuck around I fear,” another breath. “They’ve come back in greater numbers.”

“Oh, dear,” Josephine sighed.

“Most of our village was burned to the ground,” Toulouse continued.

“My grandson was able to gather those of us who remained—but they took all of our women and children.”

Dorian and Cullen exchanged glances. This wasn’t new, the Freemen took prisoners, but they had never simply come into a village and stole all the women and children.

“Few of us escaped with our lives,” the old man whispered, trailing off into some distant memory.

“My grandfather left the Circle when they disbanded; he hardly has the strength to heal minor wounds—and he’s blind—but that didn’t stop the Freemen from hurting him,” the boy wiped his eyes and tried to hold back a sob. “My mother…”

Josephine reached into her pocket and took out a handkerchief. She handed it to the youth who thanked her and dabbed his eyes. “They separated us out by sex and then locked all of the men in a makeshift stockade,” the lad continued. “We men escaped, but they have our girls, our children—we didn’t know where to go, who to turn to.”

Cullen nodded. “The Inquisition will see what they can do,” he turned to Dorian. “Will you please fetch Sister Leliana?” Dorian nodded. The last thing he heard before heading to the tower was Josephine promising the two men there was room in Skyhold Village for everyone.

XXXX

They crowded into the war room. Cullen, Josephine, Leliana on their side. Dorian, Bull, Cole, Cullen’s second, Scout Harding, and even the First Bow of Starkhaven, packed into the room around the map of Thedas.

Dorian was leaned up against the wall; his arms crossed as he listened to the group go back and forth. “I’ve been aware of their movements since they enter the pass,” Leliana was saying. “I haven’t heard much from my people in the Dales—as far as I know it’s been quiet.”

“If something happened, we would know about it,” Harding insisted. She seemed to be taking it as a personal insult that something might have happened that her scouts didn’t see. “The whole damn thing is fishy to me,”

“Me too,” Leliana said. “Venatori movements have all but stopped,”

“What are you trying to say Leliana?” Dorian, arms still crossed, pushed away from the wall. “That these people are Venatori?”

“I personally looked over these people, Leliana; many of them were seriously injured.”

“I am not saying that they’re Venatori agents, Josie, in fact, I think we need to house these people, we need to check on what they said happened. Maybe they’re confusing the Freemen with Venatori? Or Red Templars,”

“I find that hard to believe, Red Templars are more akin to monsters than men,” Dorian quipped. He couldn’t help himself, although he knew he needed to guard his tongue better when speaking with the Advisors—especially Leliana.

Cullen cleared his throat. “You said Venatori activities have stopped? I know they’ve calmed somewhat, as if in retreat. Do you think they’re regrouping?”

“I don’t know,” Leliana sighed.

“I’ve got my scouts scouring for any information on what’s going on with the Venatori. The boys out of the Western Approach have had steady contact with Venatori remnants, Commander.” Harding tapped the map indicating the Abyssal Reach. “A few weeks ago contact dropped, not completely, but enough to be noticeable. Last week not one agent was seen. I’m no commander, Ser, but that’s pretty suspicious,”

Cullen’s second—Dorian couldn’t remember her name—confirmed as such. “The men in the Hissing Wastes have reported the same thing, ser.”

“Then it must be looked into,” Cullen sighed. “Leliana, Harding, can your people hand the Venatori while I have my men check out this Freemen threat?”

“Yes,” Leliana nodded. “Josephine, try to get as much information out of the refugees as you can,”

Cullen looked to the second. “Captain, assemble a squad, I want them ready to head out dawn,”

The Captain saluted; “Yes commander,” and left.

Speaking quietly to one another, Leliana and Harding left them. Josephine excused herself next and the room lapsed into uneasy silence.

“Commander,” Lady Moraven’s brogue broke the quiet first. “If you’ve no need for me…”

“Oh, I’m sorry First Bow, I forgot you were there,” Cullen admitted, his face turning ever so slightly pink. “I would like to take you up on your offer of aide,”

“Of course, my men are at your command,” the archer said.

“Since I have to send so many men away would your men take up guard shifts around the keep and village?”

“It will be done,”

“Shall we continue this in my office?” Cullen offered and they were gone and Dorian felt as if there had been no point to his being at the meeting anyway.

“Josephine thinks your opinion is important,” Cole muttered wistfully.

“Thank you, Cole, that’s very reassuring,” Dorian sighed, drained again, and on his day off.

Bull seemed to find it funny and laughed a deep chesty laugh and gave Dorian a pat on the back. “I should go speak to the Chargers; we may be pulling some guard duty if Cullen needs it,”

Dorian nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. He decided to go do some reading, at least then if he was needed they would know where to find him.

XXXX

Mother Delphine’s voice carried like a warhorn. She was the kind of woman who not only demanded she be heard, but spoke so loudly that it was nearly impossible to _not_ hear her. Even now, as Dorian sat reading on the balcony in the main hall, he could hear every word she was saying. And poor Cullen was defenseless against her verbal onslaught.

“Your Holy Divine is missing, Ser, how can you worry about village ruffians and not her disappearance?” Delphine’s voice was like the screech of a dragonling, a very fat, _very pompous_ , very annoying, dragonling.

Dorian could not help himself, he stood up and looked over the balustrade and down at Cullen and the Chantry witch. Cullen was trying to walk away from her but with every step he took she was right on his heels.

“I can assure you, Mother, that we are trying to find them—”

“Try harder, Ser, I am beginning to think that perhaps you are not interested in finding Most Holy,”

Even from here, Dorian could see the angry glint in Cullen’s eyes. He turned to face the woman, hand on the pommel of his sword—he would never draw it on her—but Dorian wouldn’t blame him if he did. “As far as we know,” the commander’s voice was low and angry. “Cassandra is with the Inquisitor and I promise you, there is no safer place for those two then by each other’s side. If anything, Maker forbid, happens to them, they will take care of each other. Now I have more pressing business to deal with than listen to you prattle on like an ill-mannered shrew.”

Dorian laughed on his way to the library. The horrified look on Mother Delphine’s face was perhaps the most hilarious thing he had seen in a very long time. He hoped that Cullen’s outburst had shut that woman up for a time, they could all use a few days without her breathing down their necks.

As he was putting his book away, Sister Leliana came down from the rookery. She greeted him and he asked about her missing scouts.

“Still nothing,” she said as they walked together to the main hall. “I’m tempted to go looking for them myself,”

“Do you think they may have stumbled upon the dragon by accident?” Dorian asked, opening the door to Josephine’s office for her. Josephine was at her desk, she looked up and smiled.

“I’m beginning to think so; they might be hurt…” the spymaster swallowed. “Or worse,” she reached into her coat and pulled out a letter. “Look what I’ve got, Josie,” Dorian thought she always cheered when she was around Josephine.

Josephine took the note from her hand and opened it. Dorian took notice of the green wax seal on the paper. He knew that green, he also knew the seal pressed into it. It was the Inquisitor personal mark, a seal made only by the signet ring she wore.

“Is it from the Inquisitor?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” Josephine sighed in relief. “They’re all right; they found Tevinter Slavers in the Planasene Forest. Rescued an old friend of Varric’s,”

“Merrill,” Leliana said. “When Cassandra and I were looking for Lady Hawke, we couldn’t even get close, the alienage protected her. The Inquisitor has put a writ of protection on Merrill and her people, they’re coming here,”

“They’ll have more news then,” Josephine seemed visibly relieved.

Dorian couldn’t hide the fact that he too felt much better. Even though he had bet against the Inquisitor on multiple occasions, he always knew in his heart that he was rooting for her to win. He was worried about her, and there was no denying that. He didn’t pray to the Maker often, but he prayed for Him to watch over the Inquisitor and his friends. _Life would be so much less interesting without them_. This time, he would not be betting against the hero.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll note that I will be adding more tags and such as I go along. Thanks for reading, comment and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Tumblr: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/


	11. Chapter XI: Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to enc0432 and my readers!

**_Chapter XI - Cassandra_ **

This was the first time Cassandra had seen her homeland in many years, and she wished it was under better circumstances. They were following a road along the Minantar, Hunter Fell at their backs, Caimen Brea before them. To Cassandra’s left was nothing but farmland, fields of wheat, orchards, vineyards as far as they eye could see. Although the Minantar was a mile to her right, she could still see the glittering water whenever they came to a hill or incline.

It was beautiful country. She did not miss it.

Ahead, the Inquisitor was leading them. She sat her dracolisk like a leader, proud and no longer interested in nonsense. They hadn’t said a word to each other since the argument at the inn and Cassandra felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into the mire of a foul mood. The Inquisitor was already there, it seemed, as she hardly spoke to any of their other companions. Even Blackwall, (who the Inquisitor had proven, time and time again, would always be tolerated—no matter the crime), kept to himself.

On few occasions, when the silence became insufferable, Cassandra found herself mulling over an apology. But every time she started thinking those thoughts, she stopped. She had every right to be as upset as she was. She knew that sooner or later, the Inquisitor would break and apologize, turn them around, and go home.

Although, now that they were closing in on Weisshaupt, she realized that the Inquisitor was set on this course and would not be moved. Cassandra wasn’t sure what this meant for them. She was still the Inquisitor, still a powerful mage—she would still be Right Hand and hopefully Grand Enchanter—the Inquisitor would never say no, especially if it came down to faith. The Inquisitor was pious, although she was no Chantry Sister, she followed the commandments of her faith. Once this mad quest was over she would see reason, she would do as her Divine commanded.

_But at what cost?_ Cassandra asked herself. She may submit to the appointment as Right Hand of the Divine and become the Grand Enchanter, but they would not be friends, not anymore.

They had never fought like that, not even after the whole Blackwall debacle. The Inquisitor had a temper, but Cassandra had never seen it turned too forcefully towards herself. Part of her hoped that this would be like all other arguments they’d had and that in a few weeks they would forget what they had been fighting over and would go back to being friends. But Cassandra was a realist. The Inquisitor would not forget, nor would she, and their argument would fester like an unclean wound.

It hurt. Cassandra would never let anyone know how much it hurt, but that didn’t change the achiness she felt in her heart. It felt as if someone had whacked her hard in the chest—Galyan and Justinia’s deaths had felt like this, maybe deeper and more ragged; but the feeling was similar.

_Our friendship is dying_ , Cassandra concluded. It was the only reasonable explanation. It was a slow death; a body bleeding out onto the floor. It could be saved with proper attention and help, but it was like she and the Inquisitor were just staring each other down, waiting for someone to make the first move.

Cassandra wanted to be the one to bandage the relationship back up, but she was too right to relent now. If the Inquisitor wanted this to happen out her foolish, selfish, stubbornness, then it would happen.

Night fell and they took refuge in a small grove of trees off the side of the road. Cassandra took the first watch and the Inquisitor took the last. Another day past without a single word spoken.

The next day carried on very much the same. And the next day. The silence hung over them like a fog, even other travelers who came upon them seemed to sense the foulness. They would cling to the other side of the road and drop their eyes to the ground when they passed. _Just as well,_ Cassandra thought, _less people who might recognize us._

“Genevieve,” Blackwall finally ventured to break the silence. The Inquisitor slowed their pace. “There’s a village coming up,” Blackwall came up beside her, he was holding a map. “We should stop for the day, buy more supplies.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “We’ll stop,” she said. Cassandra couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes softened when Blackwall spoke to her. She had given Blackwall her forgiveness and her love, Cassandra would never understand what had driven her to so openly excuse him for what he did. Y _et more evidence, perhaps, that the Inquisitor is not as mature as we all once thought she was_ , Cassandra thought.

The village Blackwall spoke of was situated on a marshy waterfront. A rise of steep hills cut them off from the river proper. A wall of stone and wood had been erected around the settlement; there were two wooden towers by the village gate and a third nearer to the water. Along the road were wooden spikes, the desiccated heads of darkspawn occupied them. There were more, fresher heads hanging from the village walls.

“Gruesome,” Varric muttered as they approached the gate. His horse gave an uncomfortable whinny.

A man dressed in Nevarian livery called them to halt. The gate was wide open and from outside the walls it was possible to hear the sounds of revelry. Cassandra thought that there was some sort of celebration going on. She tried to remember if there was some Nevarian holiday she had forgotten about.

“Well met, Serah,” the Inquisitor came to a stop before the man. “We’re travelers, looking for supplies and a bed for the night,”

The man looked them up and down. “Aye, alright, and your name?”

“Blackwall,” she answered.

This caught Cassandra by surprise, although no one else seemed to notice. It was not a fake name per se, but it would keep anyone from recognizing the name Trevelyan; that name carried a lot of weight now and had a lot of enemies attached to it. Cassandra figured they had discussed it with each other, perhaps even leaving her out on purpose.

“And your friends?”

“My husband,” she indicated Blackwall, “My cousin,” she pointed to the Prince. “My sister-in-law,” Cassandra. “And our servant,”

The guard wrote down the given name and the number of party members. “Just a precaution,” he said as he handed the Inquisitor the papers and bid her to sign it. “Our captain likes to keep an eye on the comings and goings.”

“Of course,” The Inquisitor gave him back the paper.

“Ser,” Cassandra spoke up. “Can you tell us what the celebration is about?”

The guard smiled and lit up at the question. “Darkspawn retreated a few days ago, first time we’ve had a break in a while.” He directed them through the gate and where to find an inn.

The Inquisitor thanked him and led them into the village. The center of the village was a mire of activity. People were hawking their goods in loud, shrill voices, others were chanting drinking songs and dancing to the sound of a fife and drum. Several warriors clad in armor carried spears impaled with the heads of darkspawn; they danced about, swinging the heads around to the beat of the drum.

As the guard had told them, they avoided the crowd and went down through a side street to the edge of the water. The inn was a three story, solid looking building settled on a wide pier, water lapped at the support pillars and sent the inn into a gentle rock. There was a stable further up on the shore and away from the water. Varric and Blackwall went to pay for rooms and a man came out to offer them assistance with their mounts.

The Inquisitor told him to take the horses and she would take care of the dracolisk. Cassandra dismounted her old charger and handed the reins to the stable hand. The horse tugged away and neighed in distress. Cassandra soothed him with a soft touch, but forced him to go with the hand.

Cassandra followed the Prince up to the inn. The common room was filled to the brim with people, all of them well into their cups. Varric was chatting up a barmaid and Blackwall was counting coins out for the innkeeper.

Varric motioned for Cassandra and the Prince to come and sit with him at the bar. “Lila, here, was just telling me about the celebration; darkspawn are a real problem around here, only they retreated a few days ago,”

“At first we thought it was a fluke, but then the guards went out and didn’t get attacked.” The maid continued. “So they checked around the hills and closed up a cave they found.” She seemed very happy to relay the news to their guests. “Margret says we should have more travelers now that the roads are safer.”

“I was unaware that there was such a darkspawn problem in this area,” Cassandra noted.

“They say that there’s a Deep Roads entrance nearby,” the girl explained.

“I imagine everyone is relieved,” the Prince smiled and the girl was called away.

Blackwall had finished up with the innkeeper. “I trust you do not mind sharing a room?” he asked Varric and the Prince. “I asked for a private room for you, Seeker; this venture is costing you a pretty penny, Varric,” he laughed.

The Inquisitor came in then; she stepped over a drunk who’d fallen onto the floor. The amused smile on her face changed as she approached them and her eyes fell to Cassandra. “The animals are restless,” she told them. “Fiend tried to keep me from leaving,” she showed them the teeth shaped holes at the cuff of her tunic.

“It’s probably all the darkspawn blood,” Blackwall suggested. “Maker knows there’s enough of those corpses hanging around, it’s unsettling to us, must be a nightmare for the mounts.” It was sensible answer.

Blackwall told them he’s ordered supper and that it would be served in their rooms away from the drunken crowd. Being away the others, Cassandra felt, would be a welcomed respite. She couldn’t stand the Inquisitor’s cold demeanor any longer. She excused herself and asked a maid to show her to her room.

The room was small, with a twin bed, a nightstand, wash basin, and a small table and chair where her dinner sat waiting for her. Varric and the Prince’s room was further down the hall, but the Inquisitor and Blackwall had the room next to her. She caught snippets of her their conversation while she ate.

“…going further into darkspawn territory,” Blackwall was saying. His voice was loud enough to carry through the walls. The Inquisitor replied, but her voice was too soft to hear. “We’ll have to be extra careful,” Blackwall continued.

Cassandra picked at her food. It was goat, overcooked and the potatoes were undercooked. The bread was good though; she sliced the meat thin and layered it on the heel. The conversation next door continued—Blackwall was running through their supply list.

Cassandra finished eating and went to wash. The water in the basin was cool, but that didn’t bother her. She stripped off her traveling clothes and dumped them in a pile on the floor. As she cleaned the dirt from her body she heard, very clearly, the Inquisitor say her name.

Blackwall responded, his booming voice taking on a slight air of authority. “I will not get in the middle of it, if you women want to fight, then fight.” This surprised her; she had figured he would take the Inquisitor’s side in all things.

He continued; “I think you both have valid points, Genevieve,” Cassandra had to resist the urge to press her ear against the wall in hopes of picking up what the Inquisitor was saying. _She knows our rooms are joined; she’s talking quietly on purpose._ She had heard the Inquisitor yell many times, especially when angered or upset.

She heard Blackwall groan angrily. “Can we drop it? I’d rather not talk about it,” and it was dropped, no doubt to be picked up at a later time, especially when Cassandra wasn’t nearby.

The sounds of celebration hadn’t died down, but Cassandra was tired enough to not be bothered by it. The drunken revelry downstairs had calmed, somewhat, most likely the innkeeper sent out the partiers so his paying guests could sleep.

After checking the bed for bugs, Cassandra crawled under the blankets. Just when she thought the rocking of the pier would put her to sleep, she heard voices again. This time closer to the wall and her bed.

“You seem very smug,” _the Inquisitor._

Blackwall chuckled. “Aye, well, did you see the way that guard looked at me when you called me your husband?”

“I didn’t notice,” a gentle, loving laugh.

Blackwall chuckled again. “Doesn’t know how an old man like me snagged a pretty girl like you, could see it in his eyes.”

“Oh, really—his eyes, you say?”

“Nearly turned green, I swear it,”

Silence, or rather, Cassandra thought, _kissing_.

“So you liked it then?” the Inquisitor’s voice was hardly audible, Cassandra strained to hear it. She knew it was wrong to eavesdrop on such a moment, but she couldn’t help it. It was like trying to stay away from one of Varric’s terrible romance epics.

“Pretending to be your husband? Yes.” Then a pause. “It wouldn’t bother me to make it real, my lady.”

The Inquisitor let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t think it would bother me either, serah.” _Yes_ , Cassandra thought, _exactly like one of Varric’s romance novels._

“I will get you a ring,” Blackwall’s voice had quieted, his boisterous tone turned _sweet and soft as honey._ Cassandra rolled her eyes—she’d really needed to quit the romance novels. “It won’t be…as nice as your other pieces,”

“It’ll just be the most important one,”

They went quiet after that. Cassandra finally felt herself relax into the mattress. It was stuffed with straw, but much more comfortable than the hard ground. The blankets were scratchy, so she was forced to get up and rifle through her bags in search of her sleeping fur. She wrapped herself in the fur and fell asleep.

A Chantry bell woke her and for a moment she forgot she was in the middle of nowhere and thought she was back in Val Royeaux. But it was just a singular bell, then three blasts from a warhorn. Another horn joined the trumpet. The village had been celebrating only a few hours before, but now their shouts of revelry had turned to cries of terror.

Cassandra sat up in bed, confused. She could hear people running down the halls. She picked up Blackwall voice, Varric answered him. Still groggy, she got up and splashed her face with the dirty brown water in the basin.

What truly woke her was the roar. A sound she knew all too well.

_Dragon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the new tumblr-thingy I share with my beta: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/


	12. Chapter XII: Sebastian

_**Chapter XII – Sebastian** _

It was pandemonium. The cacophony of sounds that shook the village differed only be identified as the terrified and the tormentor. There were pleas to the Maker and drunken hollers, the shriek of children, and resounding above it all was the deafening roar of a high dragon. It was near madding, like a thick stew of noise; Sebastian had trouble thinking clearly with the din pressing in on him from all sides. The dragon passed over the village and an earth-shaking roar turned the people into a senseless mass of flesh and fear, each desperate for escape, willing to trample one another if only to save themselves.

Sebastian shook his head and forced himself to ignore the sound. He had his bow, an arrow nocked. Every muscle in his body relaxed even though his mind told him to be tense. He was an archer, a hunter—nothing but the Maker’s wrath would put fear in him now. He took a deep, calming breath and the Inquisitor came up behind him, half dressed in armor, her staff in hand.

“It’s an ice dragon!” she cried over the chaos. Blackwall, Varric, and the Divine were behind her.

“Well at least we won’t burn to death,” Varric quipped.

“Small miracles,” Sebastian responded. He and dwarf had fought alongside each other enough to know that jokes were Varric’s way of coping. Sebastian knew how panicked his companions were; they were just very practiced in the art of hiding it.

They stood on the shore near the inn, watching the dragon circle back. This time the beast laid a blast of icy breath down on the village as it passed over. Everything froze before them, ice towered up like spears and the dragon’s tail shattered them into bits of cold glass. Sebastian turned away from the shards, covered his eyes, and trusted his armor would be enough to stop the slivers.

Beside him, the Inquisitor yelped as Blackwall grabbed her and pulled her behind his shield. The ice hit harmlessly against the iron and wood. Blackwall used his sword to knock a bit of ice that had in bedded into his shield. “Hold still,” Blackwall growled handed his sword to the Inquisitor and pulled a chunk of ice out of Sebastian’s armor. “No blood,” he told him. Sebastian thanked him and turned his attention back to the dragon. It was passing back over the lake, its wings tossing the waves up like an oncoming storm.

“We have to get it away from here,” the Inquisitor said. Young as she was, she was the kind of woman who stepped in to lead when it was needed most. She reminded him of his Lady Hawke, although perhaps less prone to foul language and exceedingly dangerous stunts.

“How?” the Divine demanded. Sebastian hadn’t voiced his opinion on the matter of the Divine’s arrival. From the arguing that went on only a few weeks ago, the Inquisitor had made all their opinions very clear. Varric had told him that _“the Seeker is a stubborn woman, more like the Inquisitor than she would ever admit.”_

The Inquisitor looked around for an idea. Sebastian could see the desperation in her eyes. He’d fought a dragon with Skylar once; back when she was simply Hawke and not just his wife. It had been an accident, a trip to the Bone Pit gone awry. They’d been victorious, but no one had walked away uninjured. 

Fighting dragons wasn’t like fighting slavers or bandits. A dragon was like an entire army of claws and fangs and dangerous breath—it had a singular conscious, and a taste for blood. An army, if it felt it was losing, would retreat. Dragons never retreated. If their territory was violated, or they were hungry, or they had simply decided to take over a bit of land, they fought until they couldn’t. _Natural juggernauts_ , his lady wife had once said to him. She admired them and had tried to bring their viciousness to her fights. She typically succeeded.

_One thing is for sure,_ Sebastian thought, _I know what drove the darkspawn out._

“If we can get it near the water…the beach is wide enough for a fight.” The Inquisitor was thinking aloud. Sebastian looked towards the beach, it wasn’t ideal, but it was far away from the people. The sand and rock strewn ground would make it hard to move, especially for Blackwall and the Divine. But it was that or they let the dragon have the village.  

“Cassandra, Blackwall, you’re with me, we’re going to get that thing down to the beach. Sebastian, Varric, find high ground, cover us.”

An easy enough request. The inn provided perfect cover of the beach. Sebastian headed into the inn while Varric took to one of the nearby buildings. The inn had no way to get to the roof without climbing; Sebastian broke out a window and climbed up to the top. He didn’t have much by way of protection, but it gave him a fantastic view of the village, the lake, and the incoming dragon.

It was a beautiful beast. Her scales were colored grey and blue and touched with green. Like sea foam taking flight. They would have to kill this majestic animal; the world would be a safer, but darker place without it.

The dragon roared and made to pass over the village again. Below on the beach, the Inquisitor was throwing sparks into the air and screaming at the top of her lungs; “get down here you big lizard!” Blackwall and the Divine were slamming the flats of their swords against their shields to make as much noise as they could.

As the beast drew closer, Sebastian took a deep breath, drew his bow tight and followed the dragon down the arrow’s shaft. He released his arrow and his breath—the shaft flew straight and true, taking the beast behind her leg. Had she been a deer, the arrow would have been deadly. For a creature as large as a dragon, it was annoying at best.

Below, the Inquisitor flung a lightning spell to draw the monster down to them. The dragon shifted in flight, circled them like a vulture before diving suddenly and letting out a blast of ice.

The Inquisitor countered the ice with a fire spell before diving out of the way. The dragon landed and roared so loud Sebastian felt his head spin.

When he finally cleared his head, Sebastian saw the dragon lash out with its tail. Blackwall jumped it like it was nothing and then struck with his sword. Sebastian had heard about the mighty archdemon that the Elder One had had control of. It only made sense that the Inquisitor and her people would have experience fighting dragons.

Sebastian took another arrow from his quiver, aiming this time for the base of the dragon’s neck. The arrow hit home, but didn’t have the desired effect. On the beach, his companions were dodging claws and jaws, swords flashed red in the moonlight as they drew blood from the beast’s legs, a fire spell lit up the dark. There was blood on the sand and rocks. The dragon cut gouges in the ground with her claws; the Divine only ducked one razor tipped foot by jumping and rolling away. The dragon screeched in pain and swiped at its eyes when the Inquisitor hit it with another fire spell. It tried to scrape off the burning embers before raising its head again and screeching so loud that once again the world began to spin and Sebastian had to grab hold of the roof tiles to keep from falling over.

The beast started flapping its wings, desperate to get into the air. The Inquisitor threw up her marked hand and pulled open the Fade. The rip was not big enough to suck the dragon inside, but it kept the beast from flying off. Sebastian took his chance, nocked another arrow and fired, this time at the dragon’s face. Blinding it would leave it vulnerable.

_And angry_. With the rift slowing it’s movements it roared so loudly the very earth shook. The arrow had taken her eye. But now that she knew where the arrows were coming from, she turned towards the inn; Sebastian had only a moment to react. He jumped from the top to one of the few balconies on the second floor. The move jarred his feet and sent pain shooting up his legs, but he couldn’t stop.

The dragon screeched and lashed out with her tail, striking the inn. Wood and tiles and glass splinted in all direction. Sebastian barely moved in time to avoid the carnage. He jumped for the lake and landed in the water just in time to see the dragon’s tail cleave the inn in half and send debris into the lake.

His friends clamored for the dragon’s attention as it zeroed in on him. He could see the beast preparing—it took in a deep breath—Sebastian knew the Chant for the Dead…he had always thought that he would whisper it to himself when the time came, but right now, as he stared his death in the face, he could not think of the words. Only Skylar’s face came to him. She was pale, no amount of sun every changed that it seemed. Her face a heart, and where many saw a scar that mutilated a pretty face, he saw a mark that wrote her struggle for all to see, a proud scratch of bravery on the story of her life. Her hair was black, soft as sable and smelled a sweet as winter roses. In Kirkwall she had kept it short, but when they moved to Starkhaven she had grown it long. He could still remember the feel of it when he combed his fingers through it before they went to their separate beds.

He’d been such an idiot. Married to a woman as beautiful as a song, and he had never made love to her. Never shown her how he felt.

_No wonder she ran from you. Kept her in a gilded cage and you never lifted your vows like you promised._

Before the end could come, his friends were there. He had made an excellent distraction. The Inquisitor shoved the end of her staff into the dragon’s soft underbelly. Blackwall and the Divine had done the same on the other side of the beast. It cried out in terror and backed away as it began swaying back and forth. Desperate screeches clawed from its maw until it finally collapsed and died. 

Blackwall and the Inquisitor rushed into the water to help him. “Maker have mercy,” Sebastian muttered, the combination of cold water, cool night air, and a near death experience had left him shivering and numb. They set him on the shore right beside the dragon’s corpse. He could feel the warmth leeching the beast and flowing into him.

Quickly the Inquisitor took something from her belt, tipped his head back and pinched his nose. It was a health potion, overly sweet and cut with a slight tinge of mint. She started taking off his armor and pressing warm hands to his arms and chest. They were talking, but he had trouble deciphering who was speaking. Someone was going to get help; someone else was going to see if their mounts and their supplies were alright.

“What’s the matter with him?” _Varric._ He knew Varric’s voice well enough. It was the first to break the haze.

“He’s in shock,” the Inquisitor. She had a lovely voice, a commanding tone not unlike his Skylar’s sweet alto.

Something else came out of her belt. A candy, she put it in his mouth and told him to focus on it while she tried to warm him up with her magic. The dragon was proving to be a good source of warmth and it made him want to curl up and sleep. He tried to stay focused on the candy.

People began to gather, the Inquisitor called for someone to heat some water. Someone helped her get him onto his feet; a woman dressed in red robes—a Chantry Sister—she smelled like dust and incense and lye soap. Together, the two women carried him into the Chantry where he would be away from prying eyes.

“Will he be alright?” the Sister asked.

“He took a fall, stared down a dragon; he just needs some rest, Sister.”

“I’m cold,” Sebastian muttered. He felt like he was freezing in his bones. Why had they taken him away from the dragon’s heat?

“Someone is going to bring you a bath, Sebastian,” the Inquisitor placed her hand on his forehead and he tried to imagine it was his Lady Hawke’s gentle touch. But then he felt the thrum of magic and he knew it wasn’t her.

Sebastian opened his eyes and looked up. The Inquisitor was looking down at him, a streak of blood tricking down her face from the top of her head. He tried to reach up, to stop it from getting in her eyes, but his hand was weak and he could not lift it.

Someone brought water in and the Sister took off the rest of his armor, leaving him in his cotton tunic and smallclothes. The Inquisitor wasn’t strong enough to pick him up so Blackwall did, and set him, clothes and all, into the tub of warm water. Feeling was starting to come back in his limbs. Despite the fact that it was late summer, the lake water had been freezing cold. He’d never felt so cold, so weak. He wished his Hawke was with him. She would thread her fingers through his hair, whisper a riddle into his ear—he could almost feel her with him now.

Sebastian had never so thoroughly stared down death before. There were times in Kirkwall where thing got dangerous—demons, mages, Templars—they’d all tried to kill him at one time or another. The Bone Pit dragon had been one of the scariest experiences of his life, but it had been nothing so terrifying as staring down the snout of a dragon like that. With all his regrets unsaid... it nearly made him sick.

He hadn’t been a very good husband. He cared for her, provided for her, and loved her from afar. But he’d made promises, promises he kept holding off. And if they didn’t find her…he found himself praying every night that the Maker guide them to her; he needed to tell her that he’d written letters to Val Royeaux begging them to absolve him of the rest of his vows. He would be a better husband, a better man. No more holding off his promises, no more empty words. He would take the Starkhaven Throne—make her a true princess.

Groaning, Sebastian heaved himself out of the tub. The Divine handed him a towel and some spare clothes. “Our supplies survived the dragon,” the Inquisitor told him while the Sister was delicately dabbing at the cut on her head. He could tell it would need stitches.

“The Chantry is open to you,” the Sister told them. “We don’t have very big accommodations, but there are some beds in the back room where pilgrims often sleep.”

Sebastian found the room she spoke of; their things had been transferred there while he’d been coming to. He changed quickly, found a fur lined cloak in his bag, and went back to the chamber. The Inquisitor was sitting in a pew looking very uncomfortable while the Sister stitched her head wound with a silk thread. Blackwall was sitting beside her, their hands clasped together.

The Divine was sitting further away, her hands clasped in prayer. Her shoulders sagged in exhaustion.

Varric came into the Chantry. He closed the door and came to stand by the Inquisitor’s pew. Sebastian sat by the altar, unable to support himself any longer.

“Well,” Varric began. “We’re heroes.”

The Inquisitor found this amusing. “What else is new?” then she winced as the sister gave a soft tug to finish her stitches.

“We’re honored guests now, afforded every comfort.”

“A good night’s sleep will be enough honor for me,” Blackwall yawned. Sebastian thought that would be enough for him too.

Once he was sure everyone was uninjured or had seen their injuries tended to, Sebastian headed back to the small rectory to sleep. It was oddly comforting. It felt like he was back in his cell in the Kirkwall Chantry. It wasn’t as private as his cell in Kirkwall but only because he had to share this one with his companions. But the bed and blankets smelled like incense and the sheets were made of the same cheap, scratchy wool as those in Kirkwall.

The scratchiness was very noticeable. Since returning to Starkhaven as the Chantry Advisor he’d been given a very opulent room with a feather bed and silken sheets. It wasn’t the master bedroom, which had its own marble soaking tub and a balcony that looked over the rose garden, but it was across the hall from his wife.

It amazed him how used to luxury he had become. These past two months had taken their toll on him; he couldn’t remember that last time he had been this exhausted. Even after all that running around Kirkwall with Hawke hadn’t left him this drained.

_It’s stress_ , he thought. Around him his companions were sleeping, the dragon fight had left them fatigued. Even though his body was achy and his limbs heavy, his mind was alert. That brush with the jaws of death had made him feel so very alive—and awake. It bought up all the regrets and the broken promises, all the things he had yet to do.

Although everyone called him Prince, he had yet to officially take the throne. His cousin still “ruled,” albeit, as a figure head. And he was worried about Starkhaven because of it. His cousin wasn’t a brilliant man. Before Sebastian had arrived Goran had been under the thumb of more…ambitious members of Starkhaven nobility. Many of those nobles were not pleased when Sebastian and his new bride appeared. He was worried that without his presence to deter them, those nobles might try to turn Goran against him.

Sebastian rolled over in his bed and tried to remind himself that he had allies. The Drummond Clan, their oldest daughter the First Bow of Starkhaven—that made the Archer Corps loyal to him, not to mention a few other families, their children also in strategic military positions. _And the Inquisition_ , he thought, rolling over again and peering at the sleeping Inquisitor. Genevieve Trevelyan was a figure of law and order—by law, Sebastian was the Prince of Starkhaven, she would ensure law was upheld.

He made one last desperate attempt to get some rest by repeating his prayers over and over until he felt his mind calm. Sleep still eluded him and he ended up waking far earlier than he would have liked. With early light streaming through the rectory’s single window, he got up and dressed. The others were still sleeping.

Serah Blackwall had moved the bedding of his cot on to the floor beside his Lady’s bed. The Inquisitor was lying on her belly, one arm cradling her head, the other hung over the side. Blackwall hand was just below it. _They fell asleep holding hands_ , Sebastian smiled. In a way, it warmed his heart to see such romance. He did not have the same easy intimacy as they did.

Hold hands? Sure. Chaste kisses good night, sweet words over breakfast, and an innocent soothing touch when hurt. But he had yet to sleep in her bed, or even in the same room. Truthfully, he feared he didn’t know how to love her right. Not because of his years in the Chantry, but because what he had been before. Skylar deserved more than a deviant, more than a spare prince. He worried that if should break his final vow, even with her, that he might become that _other Sebastian_. The one who scorned Andraste’s virtues, who resented his family, who’d never made a true connection with another person before.

For a moment he entertained the idea of confiding this worry with Varric, but quickly scrapped the idea. Varric was an honorable man, and honest, but he was also a jokester and a writer. Sebastian dreaded the idea of his troubles being inscribed into a _Champion_ sequel.

He decided he would put those thoughts aside and pray. Sebastian prayed every morning and every night, nothing ever broke this habit and he hoped nothing ever would.

The Chantry was empty at this time in the morning. The incense hadn’t even been lit yet. Sebastian knew his way around a Chantry, so he went to the altar and searched for a cabinet. Like most Chantries, this one kept all their incense, candles, and other items for worship, under the altar.

He lit one of the hanging thuribles and kneeled before the altar to pray. Within the hour he was joined by the Chantry Sister. They prayed together for a time. He missed the simple sharing of faith, of praying with another; those things had seemed so common when he was a Brother, it had never occurred to him that he would miss those modest little parts of the Chantry.

When they finished their prayers, she thanked him for lighting the incense and offered him breakfast. “It’ll be oatmeal and tea,” she told him. He thanked her, he was sure his companions would be thankful when they woke.

She was about to head for the kitchen when he got an idea. His wife knew him better than anyone, and with a vague hope he asked; “Sister, my companions and I are actually looking for someone,” he began. “My wife, she’s a boisterous character,” he couldn’t help but smirk. Hawke commanded a room like no other. “long black hair, green eyes, a scar running across her face, swears like Ferelden bar wench—probably carrying a bow and a pair of daggers.”

The Sister frowned. “I’m sorry; I can’t say I’ve seen such a woman,”

He nodded. “Aye, thanks anyway.” And she left him.

Sebastian sat down in a nearby pew and sighed. _So much for that_ , although there was still hope. He had to believe that there was still hope. That he could patch up their relationship; he needed to tell her he was sorry.

Before he could brood further, Blackwall appeared in the doorway. The older warrior greeted him with a curt nod and Sebastian was reminded all over again that Blackwall didn’t seem to like him. It was becoming rather annoying. Not like Ande— _that man’s_ —brand of dislike but some deep resentment not exactly focused on Sebastian personally. It was odd being in the man’s presence. He fawned over the Inquisitor; cared for her the way Sebastian should have been caring for his Lady Hawke. But whenever Sebastian spoke, and even to an extent, Varric, Blackwall turned taciturn.

Varric had told him that Blackwall could be prickly. The warrior was not happy about this whole adventure. Coincidently, the dwarf had said, both he and Sebastian had the same feelings about their ladies. That it was time to let others march into danger.

Sebastian watched the man straighten up his padded tunic and adjust his sword and shield. They had a lot in common, he thought. Maybe if he spoke to Blackwall they might become more amicable. Maybe the old warrior would give him some advice on how to win a fair lady’s affections? Granted, Sebastian had already won his lady,--there was a matching set of rings and official documents to back it up—but Blackwall seemed to go at it with such ease.

“I am going to view our dragon,” Blackwall interrupted his train of thought. “If the Inquisitor wakes, tell her I’ll be back soon,”

Sebastian nodded but then decided that he wanted to see the dragon too. _It’s a small village_ , he thought, _the others will find us._ And he followed after Blackwall.

Blackwall noticed he was following right away and he shot Sebastian what might have been a dirty look but his beard seemed to hide its true meaning. Still, Sebastian went after him, certain their differences could be worked out.

Dawn was steadily arriving. Pale light settled over the village casting shadows over ruined buildings. Spires of ice glittered menacingly, like javelins. _Or_ , Sebastian shivered, _dragon teeth._

The dragon in the Bone Pit had been monstrous a behemoth of fangs and claws and fire. But it hadn’t been near a population center, just a mine. This dragon had attacked a village full of people. The carnage was terrible.

If there were injured, they weren’t outside, although the dead had been set out in the village square. Sebastian averted his eyes as they passed. He didn’t want to gawk at the bodies frozen solid, at the shattered bit and pieces of people, or the broken few that he been picked up in the dragon’s claws and dropped like stones.

The innkeeper and his family were sifting through the rubble of what remained of their inn as Sebastian and Blackwall approached. The owner greeted them with a solemn, respectful nod that seemed to say _better the building then my family._

On the beach the dragon was under guard. Two men in uniform carrying spears and small round shields stood around the corpse. It seemed silly to watch the dead creature so, but perhaps the village feared it might not truly be dead and that at any moment it could get up again and the terror would renew.

Sebastian couldn’t tell if it was the predawn light or death that had turned the once vibrant blue-grey-green scales dull. But the poor beast didn’t look quite as magnificent as it had last night. There were still chunks of ice on the beach and bits of wooden debris. The dragon’s blood had soaked into the sand staining it like rust on iron.

Still though, even in death it was a glorious example of the Maker’s creations. It was sad to see such a beast die. But it was necessary, and he would not regret helping to save these people.

Blackwall had made his way down to the beach only to be stopped by the two guards. “I helped kill the damned thing,” he grunted.

“I’m sorry, ser, but we can’t let you, captain’s orders.”

“I want a couple of scales,” Blackwall grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. “That’s all,” but the guard was adamant. Blackwall then demanded to know where the captain was, they were reluctant to answer but after a while the old warrior got one to tell him. And just like that he was off. Sebastian followed him; there was a small chance that the captain might know if Skylar had passed through.

The captain was quartered in the larger of the two small towers along the wall. Blackwall began knocking on the door, completely indifferent to who might have been sleeping inside. And he kept knocking until someone answered.

The guard captain stood in his nightshirt looking terribly annoyed. He was missing an eye and several teeth and what was left of his hair was full grey. He looked them both up and down, seemed to recognize who they were, and then let them in.

“What can I do for you?” the captain asked. He sounded irritated, but cordial.

Blackwall got right to the point. Sebastian found his bluntness fascinating; he was not a man to bandy words about. And maybe it was that frank honesty that had drawn the Inquisitor to Blackwall, much the same way Hawke’s unfettered and often violent sense of honor had drawn him to her.

“Your men told me I was not allowed to look over the dragon—I helped kill the beast; I need a few scales is all.” Blackwall exclaimed.

The captain looked perturbed and that slowly warped into an even deeper look of frustration. Truthfully, even Sebastian thought it was silly that Blackwall had woken so early and then bothered the captain all for some scales. But it could be he was a collector; that he kept a part of the dragons he’d slain to keep their memories alive or kept them as trophies.

“Scales?” the captain muttered. “Why?”

Blackwall almost seemed insulted by the question. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” The captain sighed. He then excused himself and went to his bedroom. He came out a few minutes later, this time dressed in his uniform. He motioned for the two men to follow him.

They were making their way back to the dragon when Sebastian asked the captain the same thing he had asked the Sister.

“I can’t say I’ve seen her,” the captain answered. “But you can check with the gate guard, he keeps the traveler logs.” Sebastian thanked him and made his way across the village to the gate tower.

The guard at the gate was more than happy to give him access to the logs. Sebastian took a seat in the tower’s small living quarters. The logs were neatly organized by date in several leather folders. Some of the dated logs were completely blank save for the date and the guard on duty; others took two or three pages.

Sebastian calculated the relative date that Hawke might have passed through. It was still a bit of a longshot, there was still no evidence that she had even passed this way. For all he knew, she had done exactly what he would have thought she _wouldn’t do_. Hawke was that kind of woman. A riddler and a trickster; she was enchantingly frustrating.

Hawke would be traveling under an assumed name. She had many that she used, sometimes just to mess with people. He kept his eye out for names like _Marion Falcon, Kite Hawke_ , and a number of other ridiculous pseudonyms.

Some of the signatures were impossible to decipher, others were the simple “X” mark of the illiterate. Each name was followed by a description of why they were in town and whether or not they had broken a law. Following that was the day they left the village, if they had been kicked out, or arrested.

An hour passed and Sebastian still hadn’t found anything. He was starting to feel hungry and with daylight’s breaking he was beginning to wonder if his companion were awake. They would probably want to move out today. Although the dragon had left them all feeling tired. Sebastian wouldn’t blame them if they wanted to spend another night in the village, if fact he might openly encourage it. The Inquisitor had taken a nasty looking head wound; another day of rest would be good for her.

Sebastian shoved the papers back into their folder and decided he would look through one more set of logs. It was mostly blank pages; a few merchants had gone through, a few farmers to sell their crops. One of the pages was marked with the names of a small family who had perished in a darkspawn attack. Then a family member had come and collected the ashes a few days later.

He came across a page marked only a few weeks from today. Dwarven merchants had passed through on their way to Kal-Sharok. And at the very bottom of the list was marked _Peregrine Vale._

Sebastian felt a small smile spread across his lips. It was so simple and obvious that she must have done it on purpose. As if she expected that at some point in time he would come after her.

Glad to see that they were on the right track, he put the logs back and thanked the gate guard before heading back to the Chantry to inform the Inquisitor that there was hope.

To his surprise, a crowd had gathered around the outside of the Chantry. The Inquisitor was in the center of it, the Divine looked rather upset, and Varric was watching with vague amusement. By the looks of it, the village had confirmed that she was the Herald of Andraste and they were now swarming her, hoping for her holy touch.

Sebastian believed that there was something otherworldly about Genevieve Trevelyan. He believed that the Maker had chosen her, that she was the earthly voice of Andraste. He had to believe in such miracles; that when a false would-be god rose from the dead to claim the Maker’s throne, that He would send a warrior to defend his creation, to end the threat to His City. While it was obvious that the Inquisitor did not consider herself holy, and that she was most definitely human—she was chosen. He believed it. _Had to_. What good was faith then?

Varric spotted him and beckoned him over. “Where you been, Choir-Boy?” he asked.

“Looking through the village travel logs,” he couldn’t contain his smile. “Peregrine Vale passed through a few weeks ago.”

“Heh,” Varric chuckled and adjusted the golden chain around his neck.

“We’re on the right track,” Sebastian watched as woman kissed the Inquisitor’s right palm and thanked her for slaying the dragon and saving them.

“I had help,” the Inquisitor smiled and kissed the head of a child held up for her. Someone offered her gold for a blessing and she told them it was not her place to bestow such a thing and that the Maker was more equip for that. Then she turned and gave Varric a slightly pleading look. The dwarf nodded and cleared his throat.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began with a great flourish of his arms. “The Herald appreciates your kindness and your adoration, but she’s a very busy woman and we are on an important mission,” he concluded with the promise of a story. In an hour’s time he would tell the gathered crowd how she had conquered the Breach.

The Inquisitor untangled herself from the crowd and entered the Chantry. The Divine followed after her, a heavy frown on her face. Sebastian watched the crowd disperse before he and Varric went after the Inquisitor. Blackwall had yet to return from the dragon.

“Well, Inquisitor, Choir-Boy has some good news,” Varric sat down in one of the pews. “Hawke must have passed through here; she left a calling card in the town logs.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “Good to know,” she sounded tired. The cut on her head looked alright but there were shadows under her eyes. She sat down and sighed. “We should move on soon; has anyone seen Blackwall?”

“He went to see the dragon.” Sebastian answered, “although that had been some time ago.” He sat down beside her to examine her head wound.

“He probably went to check on the mounts then,” the Inquisitor muttered and she angled her head towards the window so that he would have better light. It looked much better than it had last night; she must have healed it over a little. Gently, he tilted her chin and examined the stiches. She was no healer, but he’d seen her skills with herbs. He’d been too busy staring down his own death to have seen what hit her, but it had been blunt object. Something hard enough to break the skin and turn it purple.

And just as he was examining her, Blackwall came into the Chantry. He frowned when he and Sebastian locked eyes, but the Inquisitor physically brightened. “There you are, serah,” she stood up almost cheerful; “Now that we’re all here, we need to decide what to do next. Sebastian found out that Lady Hawke was here,”

“We should stay another night,” Sebastian suggested, Varric agreed with him, the Divine stayed silent as she had since she joined them.

“If we leave tomorrow morning it will give me a chance to catalog our supplies.” Blackwall explained. “The village seems very keen on helping us,”

The Inquisitor nodded. “I need more herbs too; the Anderfels aren’t exactly famous for their flora.”

Blackwall fixed her with a stern look. “Will you wait for me to finish with the supplies? I’d rather you didn’t go out there scavenging alone,”

“I could go with her,” Sebastian offered. It would give him a chance to learn more about her.

“The faster we get it done the more we can rest,” the Inquisitor added. She looked at Blackwall, almost pleading. “We’ll be careful.”

Blackwall nodded; “Aye, alright,” and he kissed her and left them.

Before heading out, the Chantry Sister offered them something to eat. The porridge was plain—nearly tasteless—just like the food had been at the Chantry at Kirkwall. The tea, however, was strong and warmed his insides up.

Despite how much it felt like being home, it _wasn’t_ home.

In Kirkwall it was common for Sebastian to get his chores done before eating and then, just as he finished his mid-morning prayers, Hawke could come barging in with some new adventure she wanted his help with. A toothy, clever grin on her face, emerald eyes bright with the thought of gold and glory, and twin dagger strapped to her back, two more around her waist, and a shiv in each boot. One of the sisters had once called her a savage because of the way she’d smear a little blood over her the bridge of her nose, but had always found it oddly endearing. Hawke had no qualms with what she did; she did not lie about what she was. She was a warrior like any knight or soldier. Perhaps more crafty and underhanded, but Hawke had been waging a war against Kirkwall’s underbelly. Mostly to fill her own coffers, but also, Sebastian knew, because she had thought it the right thing to do.

But Hawke wasn’t going to come through those doors. This time, he was the one who had to find her. Still, he thanked the Maker that Hawke had left a clue. They were getting closer, he could feel it.

When they finished eating, the Inquisitor dressed in her battle mage armor. She brought along her staff and a satchel for herbs. Sebastian looked over his white armor; he hadn’t had time to clean it since they had begun their quest. It was beginning to look more grey than white, which he supposed was better when he considered how easy it was to spot the armor. Still, he put it on and quickly checked his arrows. A few of them were beginning to show signs of wear, a hairline fracture nearly split on down the center, one had a cracked arrowhead, and another needed it’s fletching replaced. He was going to have to make some new arrows soon.

The stables were still intact and the mounts were in high spirits. The Inquisitor’s dracolisk greeted his mistress with a short shriek of joy. The noise started Sebastian’s charger. The beast was too much like a dragon for the poor stallion’s liking. From Skyhold to Kirkwall and this village, his horse had been on high alert; the dracolisk was an unfamiliar beast, although Sebastian had to admit that he liked the energetic, vicious looking monster, it was stressing his charger out.

“Hello, Fiend,” the Inquisitor cooed, gently reaching over the pen and scratching the beast behind his frills. “Ready to go for a ride?”

They saddled their mounts, signed out with the gate guard, and rode out. The Inquisitor kept her eyes downcast, searching the side of the road and the surrounding wood for whatever herbs she needed. After a few minutes, she turned off the road and onto a game trail.

Sebastian’s charger kept its distance from the dracolisk and picked a careful pace through the rocky landscape. The Inquisitor dismounted and carried on by foot. Sebastian followed suit. His horse followed without having to be pulled along giving him a chance to take out his bow and nock an arrow. He wasn’t sure what kind of game there was out here, but he needed feathers to fix some of his arrows. Any bird would do, although he preferred pheasant.

The Inquisitor stopped at a sparse patch of grass and began picking through it. Sebastian kept his eyes on their surroundings. The dragon may have driven the darkspawn out and the village guard may have blocked their exit, but darkspawn were like an infestation of bugs. There would be no getting rid of them. Eventually they would chew their way back to the surface, one way or another.

He looked down at the Inquisitor; she was using her knife like a trowel and pulling a bit of root from the ground. She stuffed each dirty piece into her bag, cleaned her knife, sheathed it, and stuffed whatever root she had found into her bags.

They continued down the thin trail, stopping when the Inquisitor spotted something of use and plucked it from the ground. Sebastian kept scanning the area for signs of trouble and game. The woods were quiet; the combination of darkspawn and then the dragon had probably scared off most of animals.

“Ah! Elfroot!” the Inquisitor said after they had wandered a further down the trail. She let go of the dracolisk’s reins and began picking leaves and flowers.

Sebastian eased the tension off his bow to relax his arm for a moment. He pulled the string taut again and looked around the clearing, hoping to scare a bird out of the bushes. The thick scrub below the trees was the perfect place for a grouse or quail to be hiding. He had no luck though and wound up turning back to the Inquisitor.

“Do all mages study plants?” he asked her.

“Oh, of course,” the Inquisitor pulled an elfroot plant up from the ground and shook the dirt from its roots. “Not to the extent that I did,” she continued. “Most of it was on my own, either in the garden with the tranquil or from my private studies after I passed my Harrowing.”

“It seems a very useful talent.”

“Couldn’t agree more—although many think it’s a dry topic.”

They fell silent and Sebastian took another turn around the clearing. He didn’t want darkspawn to sneak up on them, or anything else for that matter.

The Inquisitor stood, paced around the little patch of elfroot and then looked at Sebastian. “Will you tell me more about your Lady Hawke? Varric tells his stories,” she gave him a light smile. “Sometimes I don’t know if they’re believable.”

Sebastian held back a chuckle. “Aye, I know what you mean. What would you like to know?”

“Anything I suppose. She was with the Inquisition for a month and a half and I didn’t really get a chance to talk her about anything outside of war.”

“Well,” Sebastian gently eased the tension on his bow, but kept the arrow nocked. “She likes puzzles, riddles, illusions—those kinds of things. Never did much reading, but in Kirkwall she had a library full of books.” Unlike Hawke, he’d combed through the library looking for anything that might strike his fancy. She’d had everything: histories, memoirs, religious texts, books old and new. It was like she had collected them for the aesthetic value, for the ability to show them off to all her guests. He’d read a few of them, but unfortunately in their haste to leave Kirkwall they had left them behind. They may have been saved by friends, but in the chaos it was unlikely.

“She’s terrible at riding horses,” he smirked, she had fallen off more horses then he could count. For someone of such excellent warrior posture, she had the damnedest time keeping herself steady on a mount. “But she’s stubborn, she’ll keep trying no matter what,” he watched for a moment as the Inquisitor brushed her dirty hands off. “May I ask about you and Serah Blackwall, you seem very close.”

“We have our demons,” she told him. They walked further into the woods, still on the hunt for herbs and birds. “But he’s a good man,”

“I fear he doesn’t much care for me,” Sebastian hoped to glean some insight into the grizzled warrior.

“Don’t take it personally,” the Inquisitor turned to him. “He thinks it’s time for to put up my armor and staff,”

“Varric mentioned something about that,”

“I’m sure, he’s more insightful than I give him credit for.” She plucked a flower from the side of the road and put it in her bag. “Blackwall has his heart in the right place,” she sighed. “But people like us—” she paused and turned away.

“What?” he insisted.

She shook her head, saddened. “It’s nothing,” and he dropped it. He knew what she meant; it was the same as what Hawke had once told him. _There are people who don’t simply get to stop being what they are, I fled destiny and it swallowed me up._ It was like she was there, whispering it to him, reminding him.

Skylar Hawke’s name lived in infamy to those who hated her and in legend to those who loved her. Varric had said as much. But now he fully understood why Serah Blackwall wasn’t warming up to him. There was nothing that could truly be done about it after all.

They continued for another hour in total silence. The Inquisitor managed to gather all the herbs she needed, but Sebastian didn’t see any game. They returned to the village a little after noon.

Varric was in the village square, telling the tale of the Inquisitor’s duel against the Elder One. He was standing above the crowd on two wooden boxes; one precariously placed on top of the other. The villagers were enthralled by the story, they didn’t even notice as the Inquisitor, mounted on her dracolisk, rode right by on her way to the Chantry.

There was arguing within. Blackwall’s voice carried loudest, but the Divine interjected with what Sebastian interpreted as agreement. He and the Inquisitor returned their mounts to the stables and then hurried back to the Chantry.

“We were traveling in anonymity,” the Divine was saying when they entered. The captain of the village guards was standing in the aisle, his arms crossed aggressively over his chest. “If the dragon had not attacked we would have passed through unnoticed and your log would be worthless.”

“What’s going on here?” The Inquisitor asked. She spoke in a different tone than usual; a leader’s tone.

The captain turned and dropped his arms. “Herald,” he nodded respectfully. “I—”

Blackwall interrupted him. “He came in here to berate us over the _lies_ you wrote in the traveler log,” he spoke the word _lies_ as if it were the most ridiculous thing in all the world.

The Inquisitor nodded. “I see,” she sat down in a pew and folded her hands in her lap before offering the captain to sit with her. The captain sat, grudgingly, but respectfully. “I meant no harm, captain,” she began. “But my companions and I are traveling in secrecy, so to speak,”

“I understand Inquisitor, but the log is meant to keep us safe,”

“Of course, Captain. But you see, the mission I’m leading is dangerous and important, if word got out that the Inquisitor was traveling this close to Tevinter with only a few friends…there may be some trouble,”

Sebastian nearly laughed. It was tactful diplomacy at its finest. She’d sat and invited him to sit next to her—bringing them to the same level. Then flattering the mission, making the captain feel he would be doing them a favor if kept his mouth shut. And a threat…if something were to befall her, people would know where to look.

“So I wrote a fake name,” she continued. “To keep us all safe,”

“Inquisitor, I must—”

“From your end, captain, the threat of Corypheus and his minions may seem over and done,” she leveled him with a look and unfolded her hands. Sebastian noticed the subtle change in her voice. _No longer equals—she holds all the power and she knows it._ It was thrilling, like watching a debate in the Starkhaven court. By all accounts he should have hated politics, but he’d always found dueling words to be fascinating.

“But on my end, Serah, I am still a target of my enemies. The Venatori are a threat, imagine what they might do if they discovered that I was here, so very close to their homeland?”

The question hung there, waiting, not for an answer, but for the captain to come to a realization. It didn’t take very long for him to finally nod and say; “Of course, Herald.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Captain,”

The captain stood and thanked the Inquisitor for listening. He left them. Blackwall’s eyes followed the man out and he uncrossed his arms when the man was gone. “We all said the same thing, but it seems your word is better than an old warrior’s or a seeker’s,” he spoke jokingly. “Is it the pretty face or the wits?”

“The titles, I think.” The Inquisitor chuckled and then asked to go over their supplies before supper.

Supper was a roasted chicken, kindly donated by one of the villagers. The Inquisitor offered some to the Sister, but she refused and dined on a more humble meal of vegetable soup; she insisted that having the Herald of Andraste grace their modest Chantry was its own reward. The Sister must have found the few gold coins Sebastian and the Inquisitor had dropped the Chantry poor box.

Sleep came much easier that night and Sebastian woke refreshed and ready to head out again. The village was still sleeping when they said their goodbyes to the Sister and Captain. The gate guard let them out without a word, although he logged their exit. Sebastian hoped that the Captain had passed the Inquisitor’s words on.

The road was a twisty snake of inclines, hillocks, and sharp turns. They left the river behind and made for solid backcountry. The trees grew sparse and gave way to short, yellow-green patches of grass. The heat was becoming more noticeable too. But it was a dry at least. Although after a few days of sucking in hot dry air, Sebastian would have appreciated a little humidity.

There were no border markers; only a few scattered, weatherworn mile markers along their road. Every few hours, Blackwall and the Inquisitor looked over the map and would shake their heads when asked if they had reached the Anderfels yet.

Nothing but grass and blue sky loomed in front of them. The road was overgrown with weeds, the earth below cracked and waterless. It was a strange kind of wasteland. If people lived on the dried plains, then they stayed well hidden. They didn’t see anyone on the road either. There were animals at least, and for a week they ate fresh meat, taken down by Sebastian’s arrows.

Finally, with a range of jagged black rocks before them, the Inquisitor opened her map and confirmed with Blackwall.

“We must have passed the border a few days ago,” Blackwall said. He turned towards the mountains. “That must be the tip of the Blasted Hills.”

“Scenic,” Varric grumbled.

_The Anderfels_ , Sebastian felt a swell of hope, _and one step closer to Hawke._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be updating once a week, Wednesday, probably. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with it for so long, I know its all a slow build. But trust me. Please, trust me.


	13. Chapter XIII: Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round of applause for my Beta, enc0243. And for you guys for sticking it out.

_**Chapter XIII – Blackwall** _

Blackwall had thought the arid heat would be the worst part of their journey. He found himself wrong after a few days of crawling over the Blasted Hills. The sunburn was the worse. Genevieve had a salve to protect from the sun, but even it only went so far. They wrapped themselves up in spare clothing, it helped, but when the long day was over they still slathered a healing ointment over their burns.

The nights were cold, but they were the perfect time to hold his Lady tight. He knew they had other things to worry about, but he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to their night in the inn, just before the dragon’s attack. She’d called herself Blackwall, which he thought made for a better title than a name. Still, he liked the sound of _Genevieve Blackwall_ , no matter how ridiculous it seemed. And by all accounts, she didn’t mind it either.

They were going to get married.

He felt like a lovesick fool.

It drew up dreams of a little farmhouse filled to the brim with children, a dog—or two—and they could put up their weapons. Maybe it was a long way off…maybe it would never happen…but it was _nice_ to dream.

Blackwall wasn’t sure what day it was when they started the slow crawl up the tip of the Blasted Hills. It was hard trek; the rocks were sharp and the weather changed on a dime. One moment the wind was so high it whipped across Blackwall’s face, leaving him burned, and the next it died and a stifling heat settled over the travelers. For an hour it rained and then there was a wet, cold, sleet. And then that melted and left them guiding their mounts through mud.

The mountains above them were snowcapped and at one point they were forced to traverse a weeping glacier before dipping down into a dry valley. Then they made a grueling climb back up a black rock slope. The mounts had to be guided up at an angle, still Fiend cut up his leg on a sharp outcropping and they were forced to stop while Genevieve healed the beast up. Then they were made to stop once more when Blackwall slipped and skinned up both his knees. He kept his greaves on after that, no matter how hot the metal was, it was better than tearing his knees to the bone.

“Well, I know why we call them the Blasted Hills,” Varric muttered as they crested a particularly grueling rise. “Feels like we’re going in circles,” it was hard to hear him over the wind and the layers of fabric he’d draped himself in.

Blackwall had wrapped a scarf around his nose and mouth; the yellow-plaid was fading from the sunlight and moldy with sweat and dirt. He tugged it down over his chin and rifled through his pocket for his map. Genevieve came up beside him, Fiend followed after her. The dracolisk looked exhausted.

“We should be near here,” Blackwall muttered, pointing to a little crudely drawn tower marked Three Griffons.

Genevieve nodded. “Anyone see a tower?”

Five pairs of eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of a watch tower. It was the Prince who spotted something. He pointed northwest. “On the next rise, it looks like a ruin,”

“That’s our best bet,” Genevieve frowned. She wrapped a long sea silk scarf around her head and face, still her face was red and peeling from sun and windburn. Blackwall agreed and shoved the map back into his pocket and they continued on their way scrabbling and climbing as they went.

The fabric of Blackwall’s tunic rubbed uncomfortably against the heat blisters on his right shoulder. When he gave voice to his discomfort, Genevieve promised to whip-up a fresh batch of elfroot salve when they made camp.

At midday, Blackwall finally saw the ruined crown of a watchtower. It would shelter them for the night, but only if they could get there. They stopped a little after noon and ate a small meal of dried fruit and nuts, Blackwall gave Genevieve his dried apricots—she liked those a lot—and in return she gave him her almonds. At the end of their break, Genevieve gave everyone a candy and Blackwall wanted to kiss her for it. She was not the kind of lass so easily parted from her sweets. It was to keep up moral; the same reason she made sure there were jars of lemon drops in Inquisition supply lines.

They went on. It was a slow, painful ascent. And when they finally did reach the tower, it was nothing to write home about. Three Griffons stood on the edge of a flat rise, a straight cliff on one side, their avenue of approach on the other, and a thin twisting descent that looked more like the remnants of a rockslide than a pathway.

It was a Warden tower, a stone carved shield marked with a three screeching griffons told them as much. Once, long ago, Blackwall imagined, it had been a three story roundtower large enough to house a small force of Wardens. Now it was a ruin of broken stone, cracked mortar, with clumps of green-yellow grass growing through the cracks. Stones littered the ground, the door had rotted away to nothing, and the north wind had worked away at the stone, making it appear titled to one side.

Despite all that, Blackwall was glad to see that the stone roof had not caved in and some of the wooden rafters had not yet rotted. It was also large enough at the base to house them and the mounts for the night.

The view was best of all. From the plateau, Blackwall could see the end of the Blasted Hills and the wide expanse of hilly grassland and reddish-brown dirt. Slowly, but surely, they were making their way to Weisshaupt.

Varric and the Prince were digging up old floor stones for a firepit while Cassandra tended the horses and Genevieve started on her salve. He wouldn’t be much help with the medicine, so he went and made sure that Fiend was secure on the other side of the tower and that he’d been fed and watered. The horses tugged at the grass growing between the stones and were content with a few handfuls of oats and a drink of water.

Once the fire was going, they crisped salt pork and hardtack for supper. The wind picked up and made the tower howl; a dreadful wail that nearly snuffed out the campfire. With the Prince’s help, Blackwall used two of their tents to cover up the gaping hole in the side. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept the worst of the wind off them.

Varric drew the first watch, then Blackwall, Cassandra, the Prince, and Genevieve taking the final watch. Blackwall watched as Varric covered himself head to toe in spare clothing to keep the wind at bay, stepped out into the night.

Before they could all settle down to sleep, Genevieve passed around a crock of fresh ointment. With the others bedded down, Genevieve helped Blackwall out of his tunic. Her gentle hands spread the cool, healing balm over his back and shoulders. He had to resist the urge to take her by the wrist and kiss her—and more. But the others were around and he would not subject her to leering.

Still, her fingertips left his skin tingling. It could have been the medicine, but he liked to think that it was her.

They settled down together. Genevieve molded to his embrace. And that was all he needed. He hated being out here, he hated that she had insisted on this quest, but there was something undeniably _right_ about wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his nose into her hair.

Blackwall was disappointed when Varric came to rouse him for his turn as watchman. He forced himself out from under the furs he shared with Genevieve and wrapped himself up in warm clothes to keep the chilly wind off. He was coming to hate this place, but Blackwall couldn’t fault the open country.

There were no trees or buildings to obstruct the stars. From where he squatted under the shadow of the tower he could trace the rearing Stallion and the Sword of Mercy. At one time in his life he had used the stars to guide his night travel—he’d spent many of those days drunk and wandering, using them only to guide him to his next watering hole.

The Maiden wasn’t out at this time of year. He’d won his first tournament with the Maiden dancing in the night sky. The old Chevalier who’d helped him win had told him that her dance inspired victory and that one day, his own maiden would come dancing into his life. _But until then, crown the stars the Queen of Love and Beauty_ , the old knight had said. In victory, Thom Rainer had not taken the Chevalier’s advice. After his win, he’d crowned a pretty woman and loved her for a fortnight.

But now he was older and wiser; he was free from his tangled web of lies, he walked redemption’s path, and most importantly he had Genevieve. She deserved better, and yet she still chose him, over and over.

 _And now I need to find a ring_ , he thought. They didn’t need a ring, just a Chantry Sister to give them the Maker’s blessing, a magistrate to draw up the paperwork, and a witness or two. But she deserved a ring. A ring of ironwood or dragon bone. He thought of the scales he’d taken from the ice dragon and wondered if they could make a ring. Blackwall had made her a gift from dragon scales before, why not a ring? She would treasure it more if he had it made just for her than if he saved up and bought a ring from some jeweler in Orlais.

When this quest was over, he hoped they would sit down and truly talk about marriage. She would want something peaceful and private. But there was no doubt in Blackwall’s mind that the Inquisitor’s wedding would be the affair of a century. Josephine would ensure that all of Thedas’ most important were invited. Empress Celene, King Alistair, the rulers of the Free Marches, and many others.

 _Genevieve would hate it_. In the end, he thought they might have to elope.

He liked the dream of her in a simple gown, something blue or green. And he would don his nicest tunic, polish his armor until it shown, and trim his hair and beard. There were several small Chantries a few days ride from Skyhold. Any of them would do. But in the end he would say his vows, throw his groomcloak over her shoulders, and kiss her.

Blackwall found himself so lost in his dream that he didn’t notice Cassandra until she spoke. “I believe it’s my watch,” she grumbled.

He stood up. “Sorry, I was…” he cleared his throat; he hadn’t been sleeping, but he hadn’t been paying attention either. “Thinking,”

The Seeker crossed her arms as if she didn’t believe him, “I’m sure,”

Blackwall was about to respond when she put a finger over her lips, her other hand fell to the pommel of her sword. She had seen something in the dark. Tense, Blackwall slowly turned to where she was looking. _Darkspawn._

It was a small group—six, maybe seven. They were mostly hurlocks but Blackwall recognized the short stature of a genlock. They were milling about by the narrow path leading down into the valley below. The darkspawn hadn’t noticed them; the wind was blowing their scent away from them but bringing the smell of the darkspawn right to him and the Seeker. They smelled like death; like the cloying, putrid scent of a bad wound. 

A big hurlock with a crude maul slung over his shoulder seemed to be their alpha. The creature made a set of ugly clicking noises and another responded in the same cryptic tongue. Listening to the beasts clack and grunt at one another was surreal. That these beasts communicated…The Warden’s knew more about them than Blackwall ever would, though he knew they were all of one mind and on a unstoppable search for an archdemon to lead them.

 _If the wind shifts, they’ll smell us. If it doesn’t, the horses will smell them and make a ruckus._ Blackwall dare not look back at Cassandra and he wouldn’t speak for fear that the darkspawn would hear them. But they were running out of time. The creatures were hiking their way up the hill, coming right towards them.

Beside him, Cassandra stirred. She moved so quickly Blackwall barely had time to register what she had done. The Seeker had plucked a loose stone from the ground and threw it well over the darkspawn’s heads so that it fell against the rocks below and sent the beasts running downhill, thinking they may have scared something out of its hole.

They waited ten minutes, then twenty, neither one daring to move from under the shadow of the tower. After forty minutes, Blackwall’s legs were beginning to cramp. Still, he didn’t move. If the darkspawn came back, his movement would be spotted. He would not put them all in danger because of a Charlie horse.

An hour passed and Cassandra broke their silent freeze; “I don’t think they’re coming back,” she whispered.

Blackwall nodded. “I’ll keep watch with you,”

“No, we all need our rest.” The Seeker shook her head and held open the makeshift tent flap.

“Are you—”

He did not need light to decipher the look she gave him. He nodded again, ducked into the tower, and laid down with Genevieve again. She had not woken; neither had the animals, and the Prince and Varric seemed fast asleep as well. All the better for them. They would have made more noise awake then asleep. Blackwall did not fancy a darkspawn battle in those winds and in the dead of night, he hoped they would not come back. Despite the fact that he was supposed to be sleeping, he found himself listening for trouble until exhaustion took him.

XXXX

The wind was worse on the plains. There were no rocks or trees to block the harsh assault and the dirt was as fine as sand. Blackwall found himself choking on it more than once, and each night he splashed water into his eyes in hopes of cleaning out the grit.

Since telling Genevieve about the close encounter with the darkspawn, she determined it was too dangerous for campfires. They ate cold suppers four nights running. Still, the lack of a fire didn’t stop the darkspawn from finding them. A small group tried to ambush them in the night, luckily the Prince had spotted them first, giving them time to set a trap for the creatures.

They came across a dwarven ruin late one afternoon. “An air shaft,” Varric told them. Blackwall got as close as he dared. The tangled, fleshy sacs of darkspawn corrupt covered the inside of the stone carved shaft and a rank stench filtered up. It was pitch black when he peered over the edge, and he thought he heard the sound of scuttling feet.

 _Rats,_ he told himself, though he knew it was darkspawn. “We should get out of here,” he yelled over the roaring wind as he headed back to where his companions waited. “They’ll crawl out of there by nightfall,”

“If there were rocks or wood or _anything_ I might be able to block it off,” Genevieve cried as they turned back to the road. “There’s nothing out here,”

And that was the truth of it. There was nothing; no rocks for shelter, no streams for water, although they stumbled into a bog at some point and were forced to backtrack and go around it. They came across the ruined floor of what might have been another Warden watchtower, but it had no walls, so they moved on. Blackwall wasn’t sure when the buzzards started following them, but the big black birds traced them in lazy circles. Varric tried to shoot them down, only to lose a bolt to the wind. Genevieve dispersed them with a spell, but they were back within an hour.

They found more ruins as they went. All of them empty and useless. Blackwall could not remember that date the Fourth Blight had begun on. But the ruins told him that despite being nearly a few hundred years ago, the Anderfels still felt the affect. These had been villages and homes, and now they were derelict, abandoned. And the darkspawn still roamed these lands. There was nothing for anyone out on these plains.

But worse—there was no water.

“We’re running out of water,” the Seeker said one morning.

They were all aware and Varric suggested they conserve water. “Best to drink it,” Blackwall grunted. “I’ve seen men die of thirst with full waterskins,”

Their water was completely gone when they came upon a glimmer of hope. The Prince found a dried stream bed; he and Blackwall took turns digging into the dried sand until they hit wetness. Blackwall knew some tricks for getting water out of the ground. He tried to keep his mind off his thirst by telling his companions about the time he’d been lost in the desert.

It was late and dark when there finally was a little water. They had to boil it first, but all they had was dried grass and a little paper from Varric’s bags. Cassandra dug a small hole and stacked grass and paper in it. The mounts drank right from the well they dug, but they waited until the water was sanitary.

The water was warm when Blackwall took his first sip, but he it was sweet on his tongue. _Sip slowly_ , he told himself. Even though the water was slightly gritty and had a definite mud taste to it, when their little hole filled up again they boiled more and filled their skins. For supper they crisped some dried beef and ate a handful of dried nuts and fruit. The wind whipped the embers up and they were forced to sit tight around the fire as a makeshift barrier. They would snuff it out when all their skins were full.

Genevieve huddled close to Blackwall, her hand gently enfolded in his. She laid her head on his shoulder; he turned his attention away from the small tongues of flame licking up the side of the pot, and found her blue eyes in the gathering dark. The others may well have not been there, their eyes were focused on the water, thirst evident on their faces.

“There must be an end to this wasteland,” she whispered through cracked lips.

“We’ll see the Hunterhorns soon, little bird,”

 _Or sooner_ , he suddenly thought when Fiend picked up his head and stared out in the distance. The camp was frozen, each pair of eyes turned to the dracolisk. The beast’s nose twitched once, twice…a third time. Blackwall looked at his sword and shield, on the ground before him.

Genevieve saw it first. She jumped up, hand outstretched and a bolt of lightning struck a hurlock, freezing it in place. The hurlock’s raised sword was stayed and Cassandra, directly in its path, got to her feet, knocked the rusted blade from its grasp and ran it through with her own sword.

They were all over them then, like ants crawling out of a crack in the earth. They clicked and screeched and roared in their strange tongue. Blackwall grabbed his shield and threw it out in front of him, head down, and charged for the mounts.

“Blackwall!” Genevieve cried as he bashed a genlock head in. He looked up and she tossed his sword, scabbard and all, to him. She raised her staff and called a wall of ice to one side, cutting off the darkspawn. “Move!” she roared, calling their friends away from their battle.

The Prince yanked a pair of arrows from a ghoul, helped Varric to his feet, and they turned to the panicked mounts. Cassandra was the first mounted, her old war horse was used to the sights and sounds of battle. Her sword swung out in a flash of silver as she loped off the head of a hurlock.

Warden reared, when a hurlock came at him. Blackwall parried the beast’s rusted axe, slung his shield over his back, mounted the charger, and then ran the creature over in a crunch of bones and black bile. He almost turned to run, but stopped—he hadn’t seen Genevieve yet. He turned back and saw her, mounted on Fiend, staff up as she kept the charging darkspawn at bay.

“Damnit,” he growled, spurring Warden to her side. “Let’s go, my lady,” he reached for her, but she dodged, raised her staff, and a cage of lightning erupted out of the air, catching several darkspawn.

“Now,” she yelled, turning Fiend and plunging into the dark. Blackwall raced after her. He feared running their beasts in the dark like this, but they had no choice. He could hear _them_ —scrabbling and growling, clicking and screeching—like thunder rolling across the plain.

Blackwall could see the pure white haunches of Prince Sebastian’s charger ahead of them. Varric was beside him and Cassandra somewhere at the front. Fiend let out a screech and Blackwall turned back to view their pursuers. The darkspawn were well behind, but they were tireless creatures and did not wear out the way men and horses did.

“They’ll chase us till they have us,” Blackwall growled.

“The _hell_ they will,” Genevieve responded. “I am not dying in this Maker forsaken place.”

Blackwall felt a shiver go down his spine. “Aye,” he grunted. “Do you have a plan, my lady?” he was breathless keeping up with the pace of his horse. She did not respond, only gave Fiend a squeeze with her legs and the dracolisk hurried forward with a screech.

They caught up with their friends, Cassandra lead them, her horse lathered and sweating. “The ground is getting rocky!” she cried, she looked shaken.

Genevieve rushed ahead, lighting the crystal in her staff to break through the darkness. “They’ll see us for miles with that light!” Blackwall shouted.

“If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it!”

From here, her face was aglow with pale light. Her blue eyes were wild and desperate, there was sweat dripping down her brow and her hair hung limp over her eyes. Fiend jumped a small boulder and she wavered when he hit the ground, her chest hitting the horn of his saddle. But she was back up in a moment, a grimace on her lips.

Blackwall forced himself to take his eyes off of her and put them back on the road before them. The terrain was indeed becoming rough. The gravel road had given way to stony ground, bigger rocks, old bits of stone buildings, and clumps of thick grass made the path treacherous.

Time was lost in their rush. There was nothing but the pursued and the pursuers; the scent of sweat and death was all around them. Blackwall could scarcely breathe without feeling like he was going to vomit. He could not remember a time they had ridden this hard and this fast, the mounts were tiring and so were they, but the moon wasn’t even at its height. If daylight were soon, they might have been able to break from the darkspawn, most of who, would crawl back to their dark holes and pick up the hunt when night came. But dawn was hours off, and the darkspawn knew that.

The horses were slowing; it was only a matter of time before one of them collapsed. Fiend was the only beast that might carry on through the night, but even the dracolisk was beginning to falter. Genevieve leaned over in her saddle and murmured encouragement to the beast. He grew stronger with urging, but the beast would burn out eventually.

Finally, Genevieve came to a sharp halt, the other rushing past. Blackwall cursed and turned to go after her.

“Go!” she screamed when she saw him charging back to her.

“What are you doing?” Varric had turned and followed after them. Sebastian and Cassandra had stopped, but had yet to follow.

Genevieve held up her staff and it brightened. “I’m going to lead them away from you,”

Blackwall could not believe what he was hearing. He came up beside her and reached for her arm, she moved away from him and. “The horses don’t have much left in them,” she was trying to explain but Blackwall could hear was sound of all his plans and dreams crumbling to dust. “Fiend has more in him; we’ll draw them off,”

“No.” Blackwall growled. “ _No_.”

“I’m with him,” Varric slung Bianca off his back and pulled the slide back. “If we separate, we’ll die. We’re in this together.”

“I order you to turn around and keep going, Varric.” Her voice was a deadly calm.

“Noted, and ignored.” Varric smirked and he called the others over to them. “We’re making a stand,”

The Prince nodded and nocked an arrow. “Andraste guide us,” he said, losing his horse and giving its rear a swat. “May we walk in the light.”

Genevieve tried to argue one last time, but by then they were all dismounted and armed. Blackwall stood beside her, shield ready, sword in hand. “One day, woman,” he growled as he watched their mounts flee into the dark. “You’re going to kill me,”

With the light of Genevieve’s staff, Blackwall saw what surrounded them. By chance or Maker’s Grace she had halted on the broken street of a ruined town. The shells of old stone buildings stood around them, their wooden frames long ago decayed. It was a maze of buildings and the street was narrow. The streets would funnel the darkspawn in at a choke point; make it easy to pick them off. _For a while at least_. Blackwall was not certain they would hold out till dawn, but they would take a lot of darkspawn with them.

The pounding of perusing feet drew closer, slowed, until it was not audible. Blackwall could not sense them as a Warden could, but he could _feel_ them there, watching, looking for weakness. The wind changed and he could smell them now. One of the beasts clicked, another responded with a screech that almost sounded like a laugh.

It didn’t seem fair that it would end here. The Inquisitor had come to the world’s attention with a flash of light and a roll of thunder. For this to end here…Blackwall thought that maybe in his youth he might have wept at the sad song they would sing when news reached back to Skyhold. Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan, her unnamed companions, and how she sealed the Breach—how she saved the world—only to die in a dark ruin, dragged away by darkspawn…

And he could not bear that. Darkspawn were indiscriminate killers; that was common knowledge. But it was said that sometimes they took the woman. Anything beyond that was unknown, leaving his imagination to fill in the blanks. The hot anger he’d felt only a moment ago had swiftly turned to uncontrollable fear.

 _I’ll kill them all,_ he told himself. _I’ll kill every single last one._

A ghoul peaked up from the shadow and the Prince’s arrow took it right though the mouth. There was a sudden, insufferable silence followed by a screech and a hurlock came charging out of the darkness, serrated blade held high. Blackwall met it with his shield raised, knocking the creature to the ground. He shoved the end of Lady’s Grace through the crudely made chest plate and mail, twisted, and pulled his blade out. 

The floodgates opened and they were surrounded.

Genevieve threw up a wall of flame along one of the roads. The beasts halted, three of them had gotten caught in the blaze, they screamed and ran forward. Varric picked them off while Sebastian killed those who got too close to the flame.

Blackwall turned his attention to those coming from the other direction. He was exhausted from their travels and their hard ride here, but he found a renewed strength in his fear and rage. He had something worth fighting for and that had driven him in the Arbor Wilds and at Haven, and it would drive him now. Nothing would get past his defense, nothing would break his shield. If they wanted Genevieve they would have to kill him first.

To draw the creature’s attention, he took his warhorn and blew a long blast. Yellow eyes turned towards him, “Come on!” he roared, letting his horn fall back to his side. A hurlock came running at him, an ugly great axe held in its hands. He and the creature locked eyes and it rushed at him with a deep, primal warcry.

Blackwall rolled under the great-ax as it fell. He jammed the end of his sword into the creature’s expose armpit and then jumped clear as it slammed the ax around in wild frenzy. Fire surrounded the creature. Its frenzy ended and turned into a wail as its grey skin sloughed off in melted heaps.

Blackwall drove forward, his shield up to protect himself and his sword found the soft flesh under the hurlock’s chin. Lady’s Grace slid through its neck, cutting bone and muscle and taking the head from its shoulder’s.

When the beast fell, some of the creatures back off but only for a few moments. Blackwall could not recall how many of the monsters he had felled, but the corpses were lining the ruined street, the old stones covered in a sheen of putrid blood. The darkspawn had to scramble over the bodies of their dead in order to attack. Genevieve’s fire spells were most productive at keeping the brunt of the host at bay. But she was tiring, and so was everyone else.

They had a moment when the beasts fell back. Blackwall turned to Genevieve and had her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered against him. She was bloody, he was glad to see that most of it was not her own. “I’m so sorry,”

He hushed her. “No, no, little bird,” if they were to die in this Maker forsaken place, then it was best they die together.

“I did this,” she whispered, cupped his face and tried to smile. “I’m sorry,” And then she let him go and turned to Cassandra. “Cass I—”

But there was a horn and then another, a charge resonated around them. The ruins filled with the sound of men, the clanging of steal. Blackwall grabbed Genevieve before she could be trampled by Varric’s fleeing mare. Their horses and Fiend came back to them; they were mostly unhurt, although terribly panicked.

The darkspawn were making a retreat and a bannerman came striding down the street. A knight fully armored and helmed beside him— _her_ Blackwall noted. The knight was a woman. Her armor was a fine make, scuffed and buckled, but well taken care of. Over her heart reared two mabari and on the right side of her chest was a screeching griffin. Her helm was topped with a charging dog and the motif carried onto her shoulder guards, her sword, and the paint on her shield.

“Okay, the truth now,” Varric grumble looking at Genevieve as the knight and her bannerman approached. “Did you plan this?”

“No, I—” Genevieve trailed off and gasped.

Before the knight could hail them, the one carrying the banner dropped it, jumped down from her horse, and stood perfectly still staring at them. Her eyes were emeralds, her hair midnight, and her armor black and red.

“Sebastian?” she asked voice coarse with surpirse.

“ _Thank the Maker_ ,” the Prince cried and ran forward, gathering the woman into his arms.

“You have a beard!” Lady Hawke noted before kissing his cheek and letting the Prince run his fingers through her hair.

“Hawke! You’re alive!” Varric shouted, slinging Bianca onto his back and throwing his arms wide. “Always swooping in when the timing is right,”

“Sweet Maker, _Varric_ ,” the Prince let his wife go and she shook Varric’s hand only to be yanked down into a hearty dwarven hug. “And… your Worship!” she said, noticing Genevieve. Her face fell for half a moment before tugging up into a smile.

“Lady Hawke,” Genevieve nodded politely. She seemed to be in shock; as if she didn’t believe what her very eyes saw. She looked up at the knight. “I am Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan, serah, I am thankful for your aid. May I ask the name of the brave knight who saved our lives?”

Skylar Hawke flashed a _i-know-something-you-don’t-know_ smile, all too reminiscent of Sera. “Well, your Worshipfulness, you have the honor of addressing her Majesty, Anastasia Therin, the Queen of Ferelden and Commander of the Grey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks guys, subscribers, bookmarks, comments, and kudos, are all appreciated!


	14. Chapter XIV: The Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, I rate this story “M” for a reason. I feel the need to remind you that violence isn’t the only theme. Thank you for reading, we are currently reaching “fully realized plot” territory now and I want to seriously thank everyone for sticking with it. Enjoy!
> 
> Big thanks to my beta, enc0243!

_**Chapter XIV –The Inquisitor** _

The Hero of Ferelden was a hard looking woman. When she removed her mabari shaped helm she freed a crop of long mousy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a few streaks of gray ran through it. Not from age, Genevieve saw, but from stress. Her skin was bronzed by battle and sun, worry lines drew shallow crevasses under her nut-brown eyes. She swung down from her black stallion, left her dog helm on the horn of her saddle, and gave Genevieve a curt, but respectful nod.

“Inquisitor,” her voice was subdued. She had the quality of a woman used to having people quiet the moment she opened her mouth. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” She put away her sword.

“And I you,” was all Genevieve could think to say. It was one thing to receive a letter from the infamously reclusive Hero, another to be saved by her.

“I wonder what brings the ever important Herald of Andraste to the furthest reaches of Thedas…and with so few companions.” She looked at each of Genevieve’s friends with a calm, almost predatory glance. She was studying them each in turn; assessing them like a general took measure of her troops.

Sebastian spoke; “It’s my fault, really, I was worried about Hawke.”

Flamboyant as the first time Genevieve had met her, Lady Hawke, smiled; “You were worried about me? How sweet,” she cooed, and chastely kissed the Prince’s cheek.

“I asked for the Inquisitor’s help and so here we are,” Sebastian added quickly.

“And you’ve found her!” Hawke smirked. “You’re Majesty, tell them what _they’ve won_ ,” Genevieve did not know Hawke as well as Varric and Sebastian did, but she could feel the tension crackle between the Queen and the Champion.

Before the Hero could speak, a dwarf came running out of the darkness, his great two-handed ax coated in darkspawn blood held high for all to see. “They’re in retreat boss,” he laughed and swung his ax down into the corpse of a dead darkspawn.

“Good. Ohgren, I’d like you to meet the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan,”

The dwarf turned his attention to her, looked her up and down and gave her a lewd wink. He had a red beard to rival Blackwall, but none of the courtesies. “Hehe, I like powerful women,”

And Blackwall was at her side in a moment. _Defuse, defuse, defuse_ , Genevieve told herself as she stepped between Blackwall and the dwarf. “Well met, serah dwarf, are you a Warden?”

“Sure am, sweetie,” he laughed, took a swig from a wineskin at his side, and added; “And you know what they say about Warden stamina. Hehe!”

“Ohgren, you have a wife and child.” The Queen said sharply. She turned to Genevieve. “Don’t take it personally, Inquisitor, he’s like this with every woman he sees.”

“Of course,” and then she knew she had to get Blackwall’s gaze away from Ohgren. “May I introduce, Serah Blackwall, my beloved.”

“ _Seriously?_ ” The dwarf shouted nearly spitting out his drink. Genevieve ignored him.

“And Varric Tethras, and her Most Holy, Divine Victoria,”

“Not yet,” Most Holy interjected. “Seeker Cassandra will do just fine.”

“A strange set of companions,” the Hero said, unsmiling. “But I’ve been known to travel in strange company as well.” She mounted her stallion. “There is a holdfast nearby; you’re welcome to stay with us,”

Genevieve would not deny her friends a good night sleep—or dawn rather, as dawn was fast approaching. She whistled for Fiend and the dracolisk came trotting to her. She looked him over as he came to her; he avoided the fighting it seemed.

“Andraste’s holy tits, what is _that?_ ” Lady Hawke backed away as the dracolisk came forward.

The Prince sighed. “Skylar, language,” he muttered.

“A dracolisk,” Genevieve answered, patting the side of Fiend’s neck and cooing soft words to him.

“I think you mean _monster_.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes and mounted. It had been a long day; she wasn’t in the mood for Lady Hawke’s special brand of humor. “He’s mostly harmless.”

“Oh, _mostly_ ,” Hawke clumsily mounted her horse; Sebastian noticed her trouble and helped her up. “Do you hear that darling? It’s _mostly harmless_. The banner, please,”

“He’ll not hurt you, wife,” the Prince said as he picked the fallen banner. He seemed stunned, as if he could hardly believe they had found his wife. Or maybe it was battle fatigue, Genevieve couldn’t tell.

Lady Hawke eyed Fiend one last time before awkwardly turning her mount, nearly slipping off the other side of her saddle, and following after the Hero of Ferelden. Genevieve waited for her friends, letting them go before her and bringing up the rear. Blackwall fell in beside her, in the grey light she could see how tired he was.

“Close one,” she whispered; it wasn’t humor, just an observation. But as she watched the Prince urge his horse into a trot so that he could ride by his wife, she felt a sudden sense of relief. “I think it may be time to go home.”

“Yeah,” he muttered back, leaning heavy in his saddle.

A group of Warden’s joined them as they left the ruins behind. There were other soldiers too, men of the Anderfels in grey. Genevieve counted nearly a hundred men-at-arms and ten mounted knights. The Queen fell to the rear, her Wardens with her. She introduced each one, but Genevieve knew she wouldn’t remember them.

“One of Lord Bernard’s watchmen saw your light,” the Queen was explaining. “Although many of us sensed the darkspawn movement.”

“Thank the Maker’s for sharp eyes,” Genevieve said and hoped she would remember to put the unnamed soldier into her prayers.

Blackwall cleared his throat. “May I ask, your Majesty, who is Lord Bernard?”

“A minor lordling, he offered me and my Wardens a place to shelter—there have been…darkspawn problems.” She pointed to the horizon, ahead of them loomed the Hunterhorns, and below the jagged, snow toped peaks, was the small holdfast the Queen spoke of.

The holdfast was made up of three square timber and stone towers. A wall enclosed the castle and surrounding town. Guards along the wall hailed the returning warriors at the gate. The stone walls were scared from past sieges; the gate was made of iron and wood with gouges scored in the wood. They looked fresh, Genevieve noted, but the cuts weren’t as disturbing as the gnaw marks on the iron portcullis.

The gates opened slowly and with a rusty screech. Once the last man was inside the, gates were closed with the same speed and noise they’d opened with.

Lord Bernard was younger than Genevieve and it showed in the way he greeted his returning guests. Genevieve could almost hear Josephine clicking her tongue in disapproval as he ran to help the Queen down from her horse. Before he reached her, he remembered himself and stopped, straightened his spine and surveyed the arrivals.

A pair of grooms came forward to take mounts to the stables. They shied at the sight of Fiend, Genevieve dismounted with the intention of taking care of the dracolisk herself, but Blackwall took the beast and followed the grooms.

“Lord Bernard,” despite this being the Lordling’s home, Genevieve noted, the Queen seemed to be in charge here.

“How did it go?” Bernard asked all too eagerly.

“It was a raiding party. About seventy-five of them.” The Queen answered. “And we picked up a few new, and very important guests,” she ushered Genevieve over. “Lord Bernard, I’d like you to meet her Worship, the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan.”

Bernard jumped at her name, began to bow, changed his mind midway through, straightened up, and then extended his hand to shake. Genevieve let him take her hand and he placed a slightly sloppy kiss to her knuckles.

“It’s a joy to meet the Herald of Andraste,” he mumbled quite unsure how to address her.

“Use your voice, my lord,” the Queen chided. “A lord does not mumble.”

He nodded and repeated himself. Genevieve tried to keep from laughing, but she was too tired to hold a slight giggle back. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.” She turned to check on her companions. “And may I introduce Prince Sebastian Vael, Varric Tethras, Seeker Cassandra, and…” she searched for Blackwall but he was still with the mounts. “Serah Blackwall is around here somewhere,”

“You’re probably hungry and tired,” Bernard called over a servant and gave a few hushed orders. He led his guests into the center tower of his keep where a fire was cracking merrily in the hearth by a rough wooden table. They sat around the table, a servant came around and made sure they all had water and wine.

“None for me, thank you,” Genevieve knew with one glass of wine she might fall asleep in her soup.

“Strongwine, my lady,” the servant insisted. “To fortify you—darkspawn leave a chill in the bones,”

She did not have the strength to argue anymore and let the man pour her a glass. She took a sip so as not be insulting and found it warmed her so she took another drink. Blackwall was escorted in by one of the grooms. He sat beside her and helped himself to a sip and a gulp. A servant brought him his own goblet and a tray of oaten bread.

The food was breakfast fare. Warm porridge and eggs fried in bacon grease. Genevieve ate sparingly, what she really wanted was a warm, quiet place to sleep. Or better yet—a private place to cry. Long ago taught herself to hide her tears, the Circle wasn’t a place to show weakness and now it served her well as Inquisitor. She was not ashamed to cry, sometimes it was what she needed and then afterward she would pick herself back up and do what had to be done, but never in front of her companions or her troops. She had to be a pillar, supportive and strong, never wavering. If she was confident in their victory, her people would be too.

She reached for her wine and took a long sip to keep herself from choking up. _I’m such an idiot_ , she had been thinking as such since last night. This venture had nearly gotten them killed and she was the one to blame. Taking them this far into a land she knew was infested with darkspawn—what madness had taken her over?

Across the table, Lady Hawke was deep in conversation with Varric. Sebastian was beside her, her free hand held gently in his. The Prince was still in shock. Hawke, on the other hand, seemed to think it was all perfectly natural to find her husband in the middle of nowhere. Genevieve had to hand to Skylar Hawke; she was uncannily good at hiding her emotions.

“I’ve had rooms prepared for you all,” Bernard’s voice cut through her thoughts. “When you finish eating Joss, here,” he pointed to an elven servant. “Will take you to your rooms.”

Genevieve stood, “Oh please, a bed would lovely.” Blackwall was still eating; there would be plenty of time to brood without him seeing her.

But the Queen stood. “Actually, Inquisitor,” as she rose, there was a lapse in Hawke’s speech. She gave the Queen what Genevieve thought was a dirty look before slipping back easily into her conversation. “I know you’re tired, but I would like to speak to you privately.”

_Far be it from me to deny the Hero of Ferelden_ , Genevieve thought with only a slight bitterness. She placed a gentle hand on Blackwall’s shoulder, to assure him, and followed the Queen out of the hall.

Queen Anastasia led her through the town and up a stone and wood staircase to the top of the wall surrounding the village; they walked along the fortifications at a slow pace. The sun was coming up now, the bright bloom of red and orange renewed Genevieve’s headache. She turned away from the sun to face the Hunterhorn Mountains in the distance. Somewhere over that rise was Weisshaupt, the Grey Warden fortress. At least they had found Hawke before having to hike up those hills. Even from here, they looked steep and foreboding.

_At least we won’t have to climb those._ Genevieve almost sighed with relief. Her face was sun and wind burnt and her bones ached. For the time being, there was no way she thought she could survive the hike to Weisshaupt.

The Queen cleared her throat, dragging her out of her thoughts. “The last letter I received from my husband spoke of you, before you were Inquisitor,” she began.

“Oh?” Genevieve was trying desperately not to yawn. She must have been referring to the incident at Redcliffe. “I didn’t mean to cause such a mess for him,”

The Hero laughed her eyes had softened at the mention of her husband. “Cleaning up messes is good for him. Although, he was surprised when he met the _Herald of Andraste_ , he thought you would be taller.”

Genevieve laughed weakly. “If it had a silver for every time I’ve heard that…”

“He means well, after all, he never expected me to be so tall.” She was tall, maybe as tall as Dorian. She certainly towered over Genevieve—only by a head—but it was her presence that was so… _ominous_ , Genevieve thought, _no, ominous isn’t the word._

“You and King Alistair went through a lot.” Fearing she’d been silent for too long, Genevieve tried to make polite conversation. 

“As you and your Ser Blackwall must have,” the Queen paused and frowned as she looked at the ground. “Sister Leliana she is… still with the Inquisition?”

“Yes, a close friend,”

The Queen nodded sternly. “Good to hear, though I dare say she still owes me pair of fine shoes.”

“Leliana does love her shoes.” Their talk, it seemed, wasn’t truly going anywhere, and Genevieve found herself wondering what the Queen’s actual motivation for bringing her out here was.

The Hero let go a somber sigh. “I still get messages from Wardens all over Ferelden and Orlais, and I heard a rumor that struck me as odd.” She paused for moment, obviously collecting her thoughts. “Was it true that a woman—an apostate was serving the Empress before going to the Inquisition?”

“Lady Morrigan?” the Queen nodded. “Yes, she was…invaluable.” She had also up and disappeared with all the knowledge the Well of Sorrows had given her. While Genevieve had been very displeased to hear about her departure, she had not sent men after Lady Morrigan. _After all, you’re an apostate too_ , she reminded herself. That wasn’t necessarily the whole reason why she never ordered Lady Morrigan found—they would never find her, Genevieve knew that much. There was no point to wasting resources on a wild goose chase.

“Clever woman, that Morrigan.” The Queen chuckled darkly. “Hide exactly where we would never think to look. The Empress’s court? Too brilliant. And let me guess, she left once the fighting was done?” Genevieve nodded. “Did she have a child with her?”

“Kieran?” Genevieve had liked Lady Morrigan’s son. He was a quiet speaker and very polite, but odd. He never played with the other children in the keep and when Genevieve offered him a sweet he always went and asked his mother’s permission before taking it and offering a very well-mannered thank you in return. One time she saw Dorian teaching him to play chess, and he liked the solitude of the library and the garden more than he liked being around others his own age.

“Yes,” the Queen tried to smile. “Kieran.”

“He was a good boy,” Genevieve said, curious as to why the Queen would be so interested in the boy. She couldn’t possibly know about the Old God? Or maybe…maybe she did know. It had always been considered a miracle that she had survived the battle with the Archdemon…it was too heavy a subject to ruminate on with so little sleep.

“What color was his hair? His eyes?”

“Brown,” Genevieve paused. “Why does it matter?”

“I know his father,” she said coolly. Then she stopped and leaned against the battlements. “I never wanted children until I married Alistair,” Genevieve was about to ask why she was telling her this, but the Queen continued before she could form the words. “But now, time is running out. As I grow older so does the taint corrupt me further.” she paused again and seemed to be chewing over what she was about to say next. “I’ve miscarried three times, your Worship.”

Genevieve paled; “ _Andraste’s mercy_ ,”

“I’ve lain to many children on a funeral pyre. Alistair has tried his to console me, but I am a warrior—I deal in actions, in plans,” She took a deep breath. “He wants me to come home; but I can’t return to him like this. _I can’t_. I need your help, I need a cure,” they locked eyes.

Genevieve felt a tightening in her chest. She didn’t know what to say. There was no magic she knew of that could cure the taint. There was nothing she could do. How could she help? “Your Majesty,” she stopped, her mouth suddenly dry. “I know what people say of me,” rumors and legends were abound; there were many who had claimed that her touch had healed them of their ailments, and her men had caught more than a few conmen selling locks of her “hair” to ward off evil and sickness. “I am no miracle worker, I cannot heal the sick with my touch and I am not some holy relic.”

The Queen gave her an awkward smile. “I know.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “I don’t need your touch, your Worship. I know where the cure is, getting to it is what I need help with,”

She wanted to help, _truly_. But the prospect of more travel, more danger, _more_ chances of death—it was too much. She needed to get home and make amends. She needed to get Cassandra safely to Skyhold and needed to apologize. And Blackwall owed her a dog and she had paperwork to do and people to lead. The demons had quieted and that was enough to clear her head. Now was the time to go home, tell everyone why she’d left in the first place, and hope they’d all understand.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, shaking her head softly. “But I’m needed elsewhere,” she would understand. She was the Hero of Ferelden; she knew what it was like to put the needs of the many above your own wants. Genevieve had not being doing a very good job at that of late, but she was going to change. She needed to get back to Skyhold and beg forgiveness from her stalwart Advisors, kiss Ser Marbrand on the cheek for so bravely standing by her, and help Cassandra ascend the Sunburst Throne with as much ease as possible.

The Queen sighed very sadly and shook her head. “I had really hoped you wouldn’t say that,” she muttered. “I really didn’t want to do you like I did the Princess,”

Genevieve scrutinized the older woman, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. She felt a sudden flush of danger, as if she were staring down a rabid dog. “What do you..?” but she trailed as the Hero stood up at her full height. She was more imposing than Genevieve’s had originally thought. There were scars across the knuckles of her hands, an ugly old mark across her forehead, disappearing into her hairline. But it was her eyes that gave the most warning. One second they were calm, muddy pools and now they’d turned fiery, like a mabari ready to pounce. Instinctively, Genevieve started to reach for her staff but found empty air. She had left her weapons in the hall.

“Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan,” the Queen intoned, as if she had made this speech before, “I, Anastasia Therin, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, do hereby conscript you and your companions; Ser Blackwall, Ser Varric Tethras, Seeker Cassandra, and Prince Sebastian Vael into the Grey Wardens, to be released from service upon my direct order.”

Genevieve did nothing. It was hard to think of _what_ to do. This woman was Queen _and Hero of Ferelden_ , she was Commander of the Grey. She had the right to conscript. But could she truly conscript someone like her…and against her will?

“I am the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, you cannot,” a child’s argument. She stopped, remembering the Warden’s Ritual told to her, in all its gory detail, after the Siege of Adamant. With mouth agape, she said; “I will not drink darkspawn blood. I will not—”

“Well, _you_ don’t. I can’t actually force you to do the ritual, but when you’re conscripted you’re honor bound to aid me. Since the Orlesian Warden’s spilled the beans on the ritual, and the death that entails for not taking it, well—the rules can be bent.” She paused and a strange, almost predatory smirk came to her lips. “I wonder, if I speak to Ser Blackwall, will he deny me?”

“You wouldn’t…” but she trailed, did the Queen know about Blackwall’s lies? They weren’t exactly secret, but Thom Rainer’s crimes were of more concern to Orlais than Ferelden. Perhaps the Orlesian Wardens had told her, perhaps they had a vested interest in leverage against the Inquisitor, for fear she might disband their order? And Blackwall was good leverage; the whole damn nation of Orlais knew what she would do for him.

Genevieve looked up at elder woman. There was nervousness in the Queen’s eyes, a look that spoke of years used to desperation. The hound, she had seen only moments ago had warped into something worse—a heartbroken mother. She would do _whatever it took_ to secure their help.

“ _Are you threatening me?_ ” was all she could finally say.

“I’m sorry if you take it as a threat.” The Queen sighed. “I’m sorry it came to this, but I cannot take no for an answer.”

“You did this to Lady Hawke too, didn’t you?” And to Lord Bernard, she imagined. Maybe even to the Wardens with her now. She wanted to say as much but she was too tried to properly formulate an argument. _She did this on purpose, pulled me aside with battle fatigue. I’m surprised she even let me eat._

“I’m only doing what I have to do, Inquisitor—for my nation, for my King, for the Wardens,” the Queen explained. “You’re young, you’ll understand someday.” 

Being called young, Genevieve had found, was sometimes the polite way people said _you’re too stupid to understand_. “No, you will explain _now_ ,” she growled, she had to be Inquisitor now. The Queen wasn’t the only woman used to being listened too. For a moment she thought if she angered the Queen too much it might come to a fight. _Can I take her?_ She asked herself. She was tried and achy and frightened. _Mark of the Rift_ ; that would end her, but could she live knowing she’d killed the Queen and Hero of Ferelden? That with one blow she might stamp out the last hope of the Therin dynasty? _Too much power for one person to have._

The Queen nodded haughtily and an eerie smirk came to her lips. “Alright,” she crossed her arms as if she were preparing to discipline a pouting child. “The world thinks that it can go on without Wardens—Orlesian nobles, Antiven Prince’s, Marcher Lords—at this very moment, think the most they have to fear is their petty Game. They think if trouble arises the Inquisition or their Champion will ride gallantly in and save them. _But I know better._ The Blight is coming, never doubt that. It may not come today, tomorrow, or for another one-hundred years. _But the Blight is coming_. It’s _always_ coming. I need that cure—not just for me—but because the Wardens are on the cusp of destruction. The Northern Wardens and the Southern Wardens are about to go to war—you’re move at Adamant ensured that. I am leading the vanguard of this conflict; I am striking the first blow for all Wardens. If I can get that cure, I can guarantee that there will always be Wardens to protect those special people from the Blight. You’re not going to help me for me, Inquisitor; _you’re going to help me for you_.”

But it didn’t feel like that. Right now it felt like she was being blackmailed into helping a mad woman.

“And another thing,” the Queen muttered as if it was an afterthought. “You’re not going to tell your companions we had this talk, I’d be a shame if I had to kill all of you,”

And that was the final straw. Genevieve leapt forward and grabbed the bigger woman’s throat with her glowing left hand. Green cascaded over both of their faces washing their features in Fade-light .It would be so easy—like what she did to Corypheus. There wouldn’t be any evidence no one would know but her. Still Genevieve found she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill this sad desperate woman, no matter how she threatened her. But she did not let go. She had to make it clear, had to show her she was not some stupid little girl playing war and heroes. She was Andraste’s Chosen, the Sealer of the Breach, ender of the Mage-Templar War, _the Inquisitor_. She had slain dragons, killed more people than she cared to admit, and she would not be afraid of Anastasia Therin.

“Let me make one thing very clear to you,” she growled. The fear was gone, and left in its wake was an inner rage so bitter she feared she might lose her control. “If this goes sideways. If one of mine gets hurt—be it Blackwall, or the Prince, or Hawke—then you better hope you strike faster than me. I will make that Archdemon you killed look like a _cakewalk_.” And then she let go. The Queen backed up. She looked _impressed_ , Genevieve noted with disgust.

The Queen rubbed her neck and said hoarsely; “Then we’re in agreement. We leave for Weisshaupt by the end of the week.”

Genevieve gave her no acknowledgment, turned, and marched back to the little castle.

Joss was waiting to show her to her room. She asked for where Blackwall had been put and the elf gave her a brief, understanding nod. Blackwall’s room was dark, all the shutters had been shut and the curtains pulled closed. There was a candle left by a basin of water, a dirty rag hung off the lip of the bowl. Blackwall himself had managed to take off his heavy armor and sit on the bed to take his boots off, but he’d fallen back against the mattress, only one boot off.

Genevieve felt a small smile creep across her face when he let out a loud snore. Gently, she took of his other boot, set them neatly against a wall and removed his socks too. She should have woken him and told him about the Queen, but she couldn’t. This was a mess of her own making and she feared what he might do to try and get her out of it. Would the Hero hurt them? Force Blackwall into the Wardens? He held the Wardens in high regard, there was a small chance he might accept the Queen’s ritual.

But he wouldn’t break her heart. Not a second time. She had to believe that.

Genevieve went to the basin, dipped the cloth in the water and tried to ring out most of the filth. She washed her face then stripped out of her armor and tunic. Genevieve was not the kind of woman who could stand feeling dirty, but she would manage. Hopefully she could ask for a full bath tomorrow, complete with actual soap.

When she finished she pulled what blankets she could out from under Blackwall and curled up. She had hoped sleep would find her easily but the Fade eluded her for hours. Instead, she dwelled on how she would explain the sudden extension of their trip without putting any lives in danger.

_Do I tell them the truth?_ The Queen threated to kill them all if Genevieve told them.

Genevieve rolled over to look up at the ceiling and tried to remember how many Grey Wardens she had seen at the ruins. _More than ten_ , she thought, _less than twenty_. Could they win against those odds? Would a fight _even_ break out?

Beside her, Blackwall shifted, making the rope and wood frame groan. As he moved, the straw mattress scratched at Genevieve’s face. She sighed, with her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and scratchy straw, she wasn’t sure she would get any sleep without help. Slowly, so she wouldn’t disturb her partner, she pulled herself out of bed and looked around for her bags. Blackwall would have had them brought up for her.

Without a candle she called forth a spell wisp and found her bag of herbs and tools. She put a weak sleeping draught together and took note of her limited stores. _I’ll need more before we go to Weisshaupt_ , she frowned. Apparently she’d made up her mind without even knowing it.

“Maker damn me,” she whispered. “Maker damn Anastasia Therin.” Angry words she probably didn’t mean, Genevieve was not in the habit of wishing the Maker’s ill will on anyone.

In the back of her mind she had known the moment the Hero had said it, that she would help. How could she not? Inside the cold, commanding exterior, Genevieve had seen a broken heart. Someone who had given everything and fought valiantly—and sure, she had been made Queen, but she didn’t look like a Queen. She looked like a warrior shoved into a roll too small for her to fill.

_She just looks sad_ , Genevieve thought. _Andraste’s mercy, three dead children_. _I might be as desperate as her if I had laid three babes on a pyre._ She looked over at Blackwall and felt a jolt of pain run through her heart. Quickly, she drank her sleeping draught and kneeled below the closed window sill.

Genevieve couldn’t remember the last time she had truly prayed. She would chant until the draught took its effect; “The one who repents, who has faith, Unshaken by the darkness of the world, She shall know true peace.” She whispered the words carefully, so as not to wake Blackwall. Although by his snoring, he was well and truly out. “Many are those who wander in sin, Despairing that they are lost forever, But the one who repents, who has faith Unshaken by the darkness of the world, And boasts not, nor gloats Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know The peace of the Maker's benediction.”

By Transfigurations Eighteen she could feel the sleeping draught take hold. She quickly finished her Chant with a private prayer before crawling back into bed.

The Fade was full of darkspawn. Genevieve faced them; she could use her magic here, although she was no dreamer—not like Solas—but she was powerful enough to change small aspects of the Fade. A bookshelf to dump over enemies, a fire to block their path. And one time, when she had been desperate enough to Fadewalk on her search for Blackwall, she created a door. But she had taken enough lyruim to keep a Templar happy for several months and since then, had never recreated the feat.

Genevieve came into a narrow hallway, the darkspawn were hot on her heels. But when they turned the corner they were one giant mass of bodies—not so much an army of darkspawn as they were one ugly being. The mass screeched and she jumped back to avoid a hail of arrows, fletched in black and dripping poison. The creature lurched forward on a thousand legs. Sometimes it seemed her senses heightened in the Fade; she could smell the beasts—the sharp tangy scent of blood, the sick sweetness of rot. It was musty and cloying, the smell seemed to cling to her and there was no escape.

Quickly, she flung up a wall of flame, the monster screeched and scattered. Three hurlocks jumped from the mass, over the fire and began to run towards her. With swords raised and sharp teeth bared, they nearly tripped over themselves to get to her. Genevieve struck them with lighting, bringing them to a paralyzed halt. But that only made room for the genlock on their heels.

Four of the little dwarf-like darkspawn came rushing forward. Thinking quickly, Genevieve looked to her left and saw an old, heavy, iron candelabrum. She took a few steps back; let the creatures get close before she used her magic to give it a push. It took out two of the creatures, stopping their advance. Two more remained, she froze one and let the other come at her. But before it could reach her a roar broke through the hallway, shattering some of the stones along the wall.

Something came charging out of the darkness. An ogre, its skin the color of a bruise, eyes yellow, its teeth dripping saliva. And it was coming for her.

Genevieve turned to run but it wasn’t more hallway she found behind her. It was a wall. _This is the Fade_ , she told herself. “You can’t hurt me here!” she cried at the beast. The ogre didn’t stop.

_Time to wake up_ , she was not a dreamer—she couldn’t wake at will like them— _please wake up_. Another roar, the hallway seemed to be getting longer. She couldn’t tell if she was doing it or if the Fade was shifting.

She turned to the wall and tried to think up a door. She imagined it, heavy iron hinges, with scrollwork on the handle. Like the door that lead to her quarters in Skyhold. It would squeak when she opened it, and there would be stairs behind it.

The ogre was still coming; she could hear the pads of his feet and hands hitting the stone.

_Door, damnit, I need a door!_ And she blinked and the door was there. Her Mark was glowing bright green. She reached out with it and touched the door. _Of course_ , she felt a flooding of relief. The ogre couldn’t hurt her here, but there was always that lingering fear. It went against all instincts to just let something kill her.

She reached for the door and pulled. It didn’t give.

_Locked_. She almost laughed. The ogre had her and she was awake.

She sat up, her heart pounding wildly. She took a deep breath and thanked the Maker that Blackwall had gotten up before her. He would have been worried—well, more worried, Genevieve frowned.

Genevieve stretched and tried to roll the kinks out of her shoulders. Her body felt rested, but her mind was still roiling with thought. She got up and threw open the shutters, it was night again. She had slept through the day. By the position of the moon, almost half the night as well. Her stomach grumbled, she hadn’t eaten very much when they arrived.

Slowly, she dressed in the cleanest clothes she had and made her way to the dining hall. But lady Hawke waylaid her on the stairs. She carried a tray of food with her, and there was a dagger hanging from a belt at her side like she expected an attack any second.

“Good, you’re awake,” the Princess smiled like she had some great plot cooking up in her head, “Come with me, sweetling,”

Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Lady Hawke,” she muttered. “Must I ask you again? Please refer to me by name.” During her short time in Skyhold, Hawke had gotten in the habit of using pet names when they were alone. _You’re too much like my sister_ , was her excuse.

“As your Worshipfulness commands, but you are near my sister’s age and I miss her dearly.” Hawke chuckled, moved the tray to one hand and grabbed Genevieve by the forearm. “And do hurry, before _good_ Queen Ana wises up and keeps us separate,”

“Did she—”

“Shush, wait till we’re in the Chantry,” Hawke let go of her and led her down some spiral steps, through what appeared to be the servant’s quarters, and then out into the small courtyard where they had been received, and to a small private Chantry like the one in Skyhold.

Hawke set the tray on one of the pews and closed the door behind them. The Chantry was dark but only for a few candles. Genevieve lit a few more and then sat. Hawke sat beside her, put the tray between them and poured tea.

Genevieve accepted her tea gratefully. It had been too long since she’d had a hot cup of anything. To go with their tea, Hawke had brought some stewed mutton with potatoes and beans and hot crusty bread for dipping.

Hawke insisted Genevieve eat a little before they talked. And when half the stew was finished took her hands in reverence, the way one might give homage to the Divine. “First off,” she began, “Thank you for helping Sebastian,”

“Of course,” Genevieve didn’t need to be thanked in that regard. She had needed the Prince as much as he had needed her.

“Unfortunately, I fear your being here has put us all in danger,” Hawke sighed. “What did the Queen tell you?”

“She’s conscripted us,” Genevieve grumbled. She was coming out of the initial shock and sorry feelings. Now she remembered that she was supposed to be angry.

“That’s how she got me, the bitch,” She frowned, “Sorry, we’re in a Chantry, Hawke. No cursing,” she released Genevieve’s hands and bid her to eat some more.

“Did she threaten Lord Bernard?” Genevieve asked, she dipped a piece of bread into the stew and popped it in her mouth. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was, she was already hoping for seconds.

“Alas, no,” Hawke muttered and combed her fingers through her sable hair. “His father was killed in a darkspawn raid, only a few months ago. Poor lad’s practically falling over himself to please the Queen. His mother died when he was young and his father never bothered to properly groom him for lordship. She’s trying to teach him. He’s her creature now.”

“And the other Wardens?”

“They obey her because she’s a Commander of the Grey, not out of any personal loyalty, the dwarf, Oghren, he’s the exception. But they’re of the same mind—save the Wardens.” She spat _wardens_ as if it was curse. Lady Hawke had not come to Skyhold with a high opinion of Grey Wardens, even though her sister was one. Varric had told Genevieve that between losing her sister to the taint and suffering Anders' betrayal she had become bitter at their secrets and; _Hawke likes to know everyone’s intentions. She doesn’t trust anyone who doesn’t have clear motivation._ Of course, Adamant had not helped her opinion and she left Skyhold all the more distrustful of Wardens.

“Did you manage to get to Weisshaupt?” Genevieve asked. The stew was gone, but she finished off the bread without it.

“I did, that’s where I met the Queen. She was doing research in the library, looking for how to cure the taint. Of course she didn’t tell the First Warden that or he might have killed her for it.” She sighed and poured them more tea. “She had just three Wardens with her then, Oghren and an elf. I’m not sure what happened, but after I arrived and told the First Warden about Adamant, the Queen collected me in the middle of the night and said we had to leave. The elf was not with her.” she took a sip of tea. “This goes deeper than just a cure, your Worship.”

Genevieve nodded, she had no reason to doubt Hawke’s story. “The Queen said something about a war between the Wardens.”

“Oh yes, discord in the ranks.” She smirked like a cat with cream. “It would seem that the First Warden is very displeased with the Southern Wardens. As it turns out telling non-wardens about the ritual is punishable by death. They told you and then you told the world. Weisshaupt would very much like your head on a spike.” She gave an amused smirk.

“I’m beginning to see why you don’t like Wardens.” Genevieve frowned. She felt a headache coming on.

“I dislike this as much as you do, your Worship,” Hawke placed their empty cups back on the tray. “But we may need to go along with this until we learn more. Something is not right with the Wardens. I’ve grown used to the luxuries of a Champion and Princess, things that threaten Thedas, threaten my comfort, and I don’t want that.”

Genevieve nodded. If the Queen was right, and there was a war between the Wardens coming, then it was her duty as the Inquisitor to stop it. Thedas had seen enough war in the Dragon Age, it was time to rebuild. She did not agree with Warden methods and there was no denying that many wrongs had been done in the name of stopping a Blight, but they were necessary. What the Wardens had told her after Adamant cemented their necessity—only a Grey Warden could kill an Archdemon. As much as Genevieve hated to admit it, the Queen had not been wrong. She wasn’t going to help because she had been conscripted, but because it may very well be the best thing for Thedas.

“I don’t know what to tell the others,” Genevieve sighed. She would not consider Lady Hawke some great friend, but there was something calming about her. Her help at Adamant had been crucial and she had nearly given her life for them in the Fade. She was smart; a worthy counselor.

“You’ll tell them I’m the one who convinced you, if the heat is on me than that will make it easier for you to think.”

“No I—” Hawke stopped her there.

“Sebastian, Varric, and I had a very long talk today, the Seeker is slated to be Divine and I know about all the troubles you encountered on the road. I will take the ire this little _side quest_ might entail. I know my husband, he will not be happy when he hears this, I’d rather him be angry at me than you.”

Genevieve frowned. She didn’t like it when others faced the consequences of her actions. The heat of her impending announcement was to be her burden to bear, not Hawke’s. But no matter how she tried to convince the Princess otherwise, she refused. Hawke would take the blame and Genevieve would focus on getting to the bottom of the Warden problem.

They left the Chantry together and made for the main hall. Hopefully everyone was still awake and she could break the news now. She was in luck; her companions were all in the hall. Cassandra was quietly reading in the corner. Lord Bernard was present and playing a game of Wicked Grace with Varric, Sebastian, and Blackwall. The Queen was sitting with the dwarf, Oghren, who was visibly drunk.

When she and Hawke entered, Blackwall and Sebastian stood. Blackwall looked relieved, as if he hadn’t seen her in days. He reached out for her and she took his hand. He was steadying. _A rock._ He looked hopeful, as if he expected her to announce their inevitable return home. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss what had happened the other night, but there had been an obvious expectation as they rode away from the ruins.

She hated to betray his hopes. Her promises. She was supposed to marry him. Not die in a darkspawn hole.

Gently, Genevieve cleared her throat. _Inquisitor voice_ , she reminded herself. _Don’t let them question you, don’t let them see weakness. You are laying down the law._

“I know that we came far too close to death,” she began, and she saw Blackwall’s face shift from hopeful to stoic, because he knew the tone she used. They were not going home. “But Lady Hawke—” she nearly stumbled, but she kept her voice firm. “The Princess has asked us to help her and the Queen,”

The air was thick with silent disagreement. She expected Cassandra or Blackwall to voice their dislike first, but it was the Prince who crossed his arms and frowned. She noticed, as the Prince stood and spoke, that he had shaved his beard; he was more handsome with a clean face—younger too, closer to Hawke’s age than to Blackwall’s.

“Skylar,” it was almost a snap. “Did it ever occur to you to speak with your husband first and not the Inquisitor?” he turned to Genevieve. “Begging your pardon, your Worship,”

Genevieve nodded, it was not meant to be taken as an insult. And in fact she could see the look in Blackwall’s eyes and they said the same thing; _you should have spoken to me first._

Hawke crossed her arms and sighed. “Sebastian, love—”

“Skylar,” that time it was a snap. “This is near three times you’ve gone off without even speaking to me first, does my opinion really mean so little?”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Hawke muttered, suddenly she looked annoyed. “It’s unbecoming of a Prince,” Sebastian turned a slight red.

Varric looked up at Genevieve and made a movement with his hands, it took her a moment to realize that he was asking her to intervene. She cleared her throat again. “It is my understanding, your Highness,” pleasantries in front of the others, not to be rude, she hoped he understood. “That the Queen asked for the Princess’s aid when they were ejected from Weisshaupt.” And then she saw a moment of opportunity—a moment to make Josephine proud.

Genevieve turned to the Queen. “In fact, I am not very clear on the details, your Majesty; perhaps you can explain to us what happened.” She didn’t have enough to trap the Queen, but she wasn’t going to let her get off without giving them details.

The Queen rose from her seat, an unreadable expression on her face. If she was angry, it didn’t show, not on her face or in her words. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

“You haven’t told her yet?” Oghren slurred drunkenly. “She has an army, we sure as shit could use it,”

“No Oghren, I thought it would be best if I allowed the Inquisitor a chance to rest.” She paused and turned back to Genevieve. “I’ve been looking for a cure for the taint for years, your Worship. I have followed many leads and eventually found myself in Weisshaupt. I found an old account in Weisshaupt’s library, and that is when the Princess arrived to inform the First Warden of what happened at Adamant.” She paused, looked slightly smug as if she had recognized Genevieve’s attempt to put her on the spot. “Oghren was with me and another Ferelden Warden—an elf, Lia.

“I don’t know what happened or if she even did anything, but she was taken into custody. I feared that myself, the Princess, and Oghren would be taken too, so I gathered them up and we left.” She sat back down. “Lord’s Bernard’s father was more than accommodating and the darkspawn had been getting a little bold. We decided to stop here and help, I called for more Wardens from the South to help us.”

“First Warden’s a lazy nug-humping son-of-a-bitch.” Oghren grumbled into ale.

“What he means,” the Queen snorted. “Is that we haven’t seen any other Wardens.” She looked to Lord Bernard and the boy nodded.

“The Anderfels is large territory and the king’s soldiers can’t protect everyone. It falls to the Grey Warden’s to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Patrols have often used this place as a resting stop, but we haven’t seen any for months now.” Bernard looked to the Queen for approval and smiled when he got it.

“Needless to say, Weisshaupt’s Wardens aren’t doing their job,” Anastasia stood and beckoned for Ohgren to follow her. “Let them have time to discuss, thank you for your help, Inquisitor.” Once the two Wardens had left, Lord Bernard rose and excused himself, stopping only to inform them that Joss would see to their needs and bid them good night.

And it was left at that.

The looks given Genevieve ranged from neutral to livid. Blackwall was looking at her as if she was a puzzle to be solved, while Cassandra had turned an angry red. Varric seemed to be the only one offering support, although he didn’t voice it.

“You truly can’t be serious,” Cassandra laughed bitterly.

“I am,” Genevieve countered. _I would tell you the truth, but I won’t risk getting you hurt_. She had almost apologized in the ruins, and she thought that now might have been a good time to finally build that bridge—but Cassandra beat her too it.

“I should have put Cullen forward as Inquisitor,” the Seeker murmured. Perhaps it was meant to be said under breath; maybe she hadn’t meant it at all. But the room had grown cold and every pair of eyes had turned to look at her.

Genevieve had been rendered completely speechless. She could not form the words to retort, or fight, she could only think of that bridge she had only a moment ago, hoped to build and how Cassandra had set it aflame.

Varric broke the silence; “I’m sure the Seeker doesn’t mean that,” but he broke off when Genevieve leveled him a glare. He would not make it better, and perhaps there was no saving this friendship. And if that was truly the case, she would be a faithful servant of the Divine. But Cassandra was _not_ Divine yet.

“I am sorry you feel that way, Most Holy.” It came out in a whisper. Then she left them, too blinded by rage to cry and too tried to be truly angry. Because there were voices in the back of her mind—not her voice, it was Sloth and Envy and Regret.

_We can give you what you want. She will never understand._

If Cullen had been made Inquisitor…she may not have escaped the War, but she might have escaped much of the heartbreak and the difficulty that came with Leadership.

But that was not the case. She could not change the past and neither could Cassandra. The demons could harp all they liked; their words fell on deaf ears. _I will survive this, she told herself. I will solve the Warden’s problems and then I will go home and put Cassandra on that damn throne. Then, Maker willing. I will be done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know I’m playing a little fast and loose with the Right of Conscription. But I do consider everything I write as slightly AU because I’m in the habit of toying with things until they fit the story I want to tell. And that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it! Thanks again; comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. are always appreciated!


	15. Chapter XV: Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta props, enc0243 = the best. 
> 
> And thanks to my readers, because it's take a long time to finally get the to "fun" and you've all stuck to it for so long.

_**Chapter XV – Blackwall** _

The elven servant, Joss, was the soul of discretion. It made Blackwall think that his liege-lords had been in need of his clandestine nature, for what—was none of his business. But the elf was cordial and told him the moment he asked that the Inquisitor had gone to the bathhouse. He even offered to unlock the door for him and gave him a razor, clean clothes, and a masculine soap. Then he nodded very politely and promised to inform anyone that came asking that Blackwall and the Inquisitor had gone to bed and should not be disturbed. Blackwall didn’t bother to correct the elf on the fact that their relationship wasn’t a secret.

When he entered the bathhouse, Blackwall had had the purest of intentions. He was still reeling from Genevieve’s decision to go to Weisshaupt. They needed to talk about it, he felt bad about cornering her during her bath, but when he saw her through the steam he knew his plan had backfired.

On their way to the bathhouse, Joss had told him that the darkspawn were known for fouling water, and that all water had to be boiled vigorously before it could be used. They drew it straight out of the ground and it into big copper pots to be boiled and then stored. But one of the tanks was connected to the bathhouse where it could be used at the holdfast’s leisure. It was a fancy set up, something he expected to see in Minranthos or Val Royauex, not a small hamlet in the Anderfels. Steaming water came down a sluice and into a large pool carved into the stone. There were dragons carved into the stone and the water poured out of a dragon’s mouth. Blackwall was left wondering if this holdfast had been built on Tevinter ruins, as many an ancient house had been.

Genevieve must have known he was there, but she turned away and was vigorously soaping her hair. “You need a haircut,” she said as if that was the biggest worry they had. Then she turned and he felt himself grow weak in the knees when saw her. The sun had tanned her skin, leaving the few scars on her body white as milk. Steam fanned around her creating a corona when the nearby lamps flickered. Her skin was slick with soap and water and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the way her hair stood on end when she scrubbed it.

“I love you,” she whispered, low and husky as if this had been her plan all along, “But it’s odd if you just stand there and watch,”

Blackwall internally shook himself. _Focus_ , he thought, _you’re upset with her and you need to tell her. Don’t let it fester like last time._

Instead, he started taking off his boots. And then his belt, and tunic, and his trousers and small-clothes. As he found the steps into the pool, Genevieve dunked her head under the water to clean the soap from hair. She came up, gasping for air, and he took her in his arms. He kissed her lips and her newly washed hair, and her neck and her shoulder for good measure. She smelled slightly of lavender and lye, not like the sweet perfumes she kept in Skyhold.

“You know the rules,” she whispered in his ear as he kissed.

“Aye,” he muttered against her. But he couldn’t let go of her. He loved Genevieve Trevelyan, loved the way she took command of a room, how she burned like a star shimmering in the night, how she was courageous and loyal and merciful and loving. But, he loved the vessel the soul was housed in, too. With her, the Maker had not left him wanting. She was too young for an old man like him, and yet the thought of her with someone else brought rage bubbling in his gut.

“If you don’t get your soap, I’ll get mine, and you can fight darkspawn smelling of flowers.”

He laughed deep in his chest, and it felt good. He hadn’t laughed with her in a long time. “They’ll run scared for sure,”

“All shall beware the great black-bearded warrior who smells of spring,” she laughed too, and it was freeing. He could tell. Cassandra’s words had moved beyond the realm of cruel and critical and into personal. He feared they might not fix this and that his Lady Love would be left with one less friend in the world. “Oh the ladies will love you; they’ll call you the Lavender Knight,”

“But there is only one I want,” he told her, kissing her lips and tasting the last bit of suds that had dripped from her hair down her face.

She broke free of his grasp and took up the soap he’d left at the lip of the pool. Not be left out, he picked up her soap. They had never washed each other before. Her tub in Skyhold had been designed for one person, although he barrowed it regularly (but only to please her). There was a simple intimacy in bathing together; something they hadn’t had in a long time.

The soap melted into the hot water and it was just them. He was caught up in the feel of her against him, the way her fingers laved soap in his beard. Genevieve’s arm was thrown over his shoulder and she had a leg hitched around his hip. She was all he needed. This was peace, this was tranquility, this was succor to the soul. Genevieve was close enough that he felt her breath on his lips. She kissed his shoulder and laid her head against his chest. The bath house was silent; he didn’t want the stillness of the moment to fade.

But he still hadn’t forgotten what had brought him to the bathhouse in the first place. He worried that she would perceive it as unfair; she didn’t know that he had come here to bring up difficult matters only to fail to the needs of his body and heart.

Blackwall told himself it wasn’t right to drag up Weisshaupt after love-making, but he couldn’t let the matter sit. He couldn’t block her out like he had on the first leg of their journey.

The water was still warm and they were just holding each other, soaking in the intimacy as if they had been starved of it. He didn’t want this to be a confrontation, _he didn’t_ want her to feel cornered, so he very gently whispered; “I love you, Genevieve,” he began, “But I am worried about you,”

The soft, relaxed posture of her back tightened. She looked up from where her head had been tucked under her chin. The look she gave him was biting. But if she meant to follow up that look with words, they died on her lips.

“Are you trying to prove something?” he spoke so mildly he thought for a moment she hadn’t heard him. She had though; he could see it in her eyes. She was thinking.

“No,” she whispered. “I am not,”

“Then what?” he asked. When she did not answer he began to think that maybe this was about pride. That maybe this really was about trying to prove something. He didn’t want it to be, it was so pigheaded and damnably foolish. She was stubborn, but not a fool; she wouldn’t put their lives in danger for her own ego, that was too _little_ of her. “If you’re trying to prove something to me or to the others—you know you don’t have too. We know you…we—”

“It isn’t about proving something.” She growled, left the circle of his arms and climbed out of the tub, dripping wet. She took up a towel and started drying.

Blackwall sighed, hoisted himself out of the pool and found his towel. He pulled on his small clothes and a fresh tunic and trousers. Once he was fully dressed he turned and was relieved that Genevieve had not left. She was fumbling with the buttons on her dress. She gave up, even after he offered to help, and mumbled something about going to bed anyway.

They left the bathhouse and slowly walked back up to the holdfast. Blackwall did not bring up the topic again until they were in the quiet solitude of the hall. The others had gone to bed, leaving the small keep nearly desolate.

“If it isn’t about proving something,” he asked softly as they started up the stairs. “Then what is it about? Is it to spite Cassandra?” she hurried up the steps before him, but he kept pace, coming up so close behind her he could smell the lavender clinging to her skin. “She should not have said the things she’s said, but seeking childish revenge is below you, Genevieve,”

Genevieve turned quickly and they were face to face. She had made sure to stop on a higher step so that they were eye to eye. “You, of all people, know I am not a child.” And then went up the steps again, forcing Blackwall into a jog so that he might catch up with her.

She didn’t stop her furious pace until she reached their room. Blackwall closed the door as quietly as he could and locked it. Genevieve was rifling through her bags, silent and tense. He had picked at something, and she did not like it. It was as if their roles had been reversed. She was acting the taciturn fool, and he the rational one. He knew that he may very well end up sleeping out in the stables with the dracolisk if he pushed too hard, but he had to try. Cassandra had made her angry; she just needed time to cool down.

He thought, as he watched her dig out all her filthy traveling clothes and dump them on the floor, that he would give it a rest and try again in the morning. But he would just lie awake all night thinking about what to say to her, or worse, _talk himself out of it._

“Then if it is not about proving yourself and not out of spite, what is it? You’re not the kind of woman who risks the lives of her loved ones without cause. Do you truly see some threat? Did the Princess tell you more than you told us?”

He could see how she struggled with her silence; biting back her tongue as if she was fighting the urge to speak. Something had been said to her, something she deemed important enough to risk life and limb again. Blackwall did not think it would be such a bad thing to go to Weisshaupt. Perhaps there was something wrong with the Wardens? And if that was true it had to be addressed. But there was some underlying thing going on here. He had spent a great chunk of his life living a lie. He knew the stink of it, how it rotted you inside and out. Genevieve was not the kind of woman to make lies without cause.

“Did Lady Hawke convince you so well?” he asked after too much silence.

Genevieve stood and shook her head. “No,” she muttered and looked him up and down. Some great conflict was rolling around in her head, he could see it by the way her fists clenched and opened. And she wore that strange stare she often got when she was thinking very hard on something.

He saw a tear escape the corner of her eye, but he didn’t expect the words that came tumbling out of her mouth. “You cannot tell anyone,” she started with. And she told him everything about her meeting with the Queen a night ago. When her story was finished, he felt a savage anger stir in his gut. _Lady’s Grace_ leaned against the bedside, only a foot away from where he stood. All he had to do was take it up and find a servant to show him where Anastasia slept. The Queen would be sleeping, Grey Wardens were formidable warriors—but they could be killed in their sleep like anyone else.

But Genevieve reached over and stayed his hand as if she had read his thoughts. “No,” she hissed, he saw how scared she looked. She took his hand and placed it over her heart. “I could not bear it,” she whispered. “If you lost or if she forced you into the Wardens.”

“I am not afraid of that harpy,” he growled, they had come to this place with goodwill in their hearts, how could someone just spit on that? “And neither are you,” he added. “Together, we could take her; put an end to her threats. _Permanently_.” He had killed too many in his life to feel that a sword and death was the answer to all problems. But for this, this he felt his sword would do just fine.

“Her, of course—but if she called for her Wardens or for Lord Bernard’s men…” she trailed, but it deflated him nonetheless. He could kill the Hero, but not all the Wardens she had and not all of Bernard’s household guards.

“If she finds out I told you,” Genevieve muttered. “She will fully conscript you; make you take the ritual,”

“I will not,” he growled. There had been a time in his life where he would have joined the Wardens and been glad for it. But now he had someone to live for, someone he wanted to marry, to raise many sons and daughters with. He would not give up Genevieve even if the Maker offered to turn back to the world in exchange for her.

“I said the same,” she chuckled. “But me, she can’t force me. My absence would be noted, investigated, and eventually some Warden would tell Leliana—and you can imagine what would happen after that. But you? I am the only one who would truly feel the weight of your absence,”

“So what do we do?” Blackwall sighed. _Boxed in like nugs on feast day; cleaver one way an ax the other._

“I will send a letter to Skyhold. Hopefully, I still remember the codes Leliana taught me—I expect the Queen will read my letters. Then we will do as the Queen expects. And pray, pray the Maker sees fit to keep us alive through the end. I still don’t have that dog, after all.” 

Blackwall let a smile tug at his lips. “What of the others? What about Cassandra?”

“Let the others stay in ignorance. As for Most Holy, it is my duty to keep her safe and alive, even if she doesn’t know that’s what I’m doing…”

“Maybe when this is all over, you can sit down? Explain it.”

“I fear Most Holy and I have said words far beyond explanation, my love.”

“You know how she is, Genevieve, she says things without thinking.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Genevieve sighed, almost angrily. “She perceives me as impulsive and childish while she leaps without looking—I at least have the common decency to ruminate and feel bad about my words and actions,”

Blackwall opened his mouth to protest again, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about Most Holy anymore,”

So they quit talking altogether and Blackwall fell asleep with Genevieve tucked against his chest. It was easy to fall asleep, but when he woke he felt drained. And he knew that it was because they were actually going to let the Hero of Ferelden drag them along. Blackwall was not a man who let true threats go unchecked. If things went his way, they would take the Queen unaware. If Genevieve did not want to kill her, then they could keep her captive until they got to Val Royeaux.

But there was the problem with the Wardens. Any problem with the Wardens would lead to problems with the rest of the world. _No wonder Genevieve struggled with this_ ; Blackwall rubbed the back of his head and sighed. She was awake now, and had had paper and ink brought up. Right now she was scratching away at the parchment, writing out a note to be flown to Cumberland and then taken by messenger cart to Skyhold. _Does she keep us safe at the price of a Grey Warden war?_

He liked to watch her scribble away on her papers. He knew his letters well enough to read and write, but words were blunt instruments in his hands. She had soft, flowing script, the kind of handwriting he expected from a high born lady. 

When he leaned over her shoulder to read her letter, he found it banal at best. It told of where they were, and what day it was, but there something about the weather, and something else about tearing a favorite dress.

“It’s code,” she muttered, finishing the letter with her signature and folding it up. She melted the tip of a little bar of green wax, dabbed it on the fold of the parchment and pressed her ring to it. Quickly, she turned the letter over and wrote in the corner; _to my Esteemed Counselor and Friend, Sister Leliana of the Inquisition. From her Worship, Inquisitor G. Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste._

“Is it wise to put your name down?”

“There is a scouting force in Cumberland, they will get this letter and put it right in Leliana’s hands. If there is any group of people I can trust, it’s Leliana’s.” she stood up, kissed his cheek and feathered her fingers through his hair.

“You need a haircut,” she smiled. He cupped her face; he wanted to keep that smile close to his heart. It was a beautiful smile; he missed the moment it fell from her lips. “Did you bring scissors? Or should I ask around for some?”

“I have some,” Blackwall answered.

She nodded and held up her letter; “Let me send this off then,” when she left, he went to the window and threw open the shutters. The sun hadn’t come up yet, but there was a soft grey glow on the horizon. The lordling’s men were practicing arms in the yard below, Lady Hawke was down below as well, a bow in hand and a target peppered heavily with arrows. He wondered how long she had been there to have shot so many arrows down the field.

The Anderfels were an arid place, and that made the air cold and dry. Summer would end soon and bring cold weather with it. He wasn’t sure how far Weisshaupt was from the holdfast, but he hoped it was a short journey. Traveling home in winter storms would be unpleasant at best, deadly at worst.

But he didn’t want to dwell on the weather especially when Genevieve returned. She sat him down in one of the chairs and before the mirror in their room. And he watched her trim back the unruly mess his hair had become. It was calming. Something completely normal in the tempest their lives had become. She took her time about it too, probably because they both knew that going down stairs and seeing the Queen might throw them both into a wrath.

When she finished with his hair, he combed and trimmed back his beard. Done with his beard, they had no choice but to finally emerge when one of the servants called on them to change the rushes, the bedding, and collect their travel stained clothes for washing.

The dining hall had been cleared of food and they had missed breakfast, but Blackwall did not feel particularly hungry anyway. Varric and the dwarf, Oghren were arguing over a game of cards. The young Lord Bernard was absent, as were the Vael’s and Seeker Cassandra.

Genevieve asked as passing servant for a fresh pot of tea and Blackwall helped himself to the pitcher of ale set beside the dwarves’ game. Blackwall wasn’t sure if the argument was about cheating or beards or something else dwarves found interesting.

“Thunderhumping, surfacers,” Oghren growled throwing his cards onto the table in a fit of rage.

“Surfacers,” Varric laughed and began cleaning up their game. “Look at the pot calling the kettle black!”

Genevieve smirked when Oghren took offence to being called “cookware” and sat down beside Varric, who cut her into the game without a word. Blackwall remained standing but Varric passed him some cards anyway. Genevieve threw two coppers onto the table to ante.

“You gonna play again, Pot? Or you down to your last coin?” Varric chuckled.

“One more round, but only if you two clear out and the lady stays,” the dwarf’s tone was lascivious. “I haven’t got much coin, but we can always bet clothes,”

Blackwall did not hide the belligerent look on his face as he sat down next to Genevieve; close so that their shoulders touched. Genevieve did not seem very offended by the dwarf; on the contrary, she seemed to find him amusing. She had practice in spurring advances, but most of them had been high lords and ladies of polite countenance. And while in the Orlesian court there was always a bit of _lewdness_ , it was artfully spoken, hardly offensive if only in nature.

“What’s the matter black-beard?” the dwarf continued. “She seems to like bearded, experienced men, heh heh heh, afraid of a little competition?”

As if waiting to see what he would say, both Genevieve and Varric turned to Blackwall. Blackwall shook his head. The dwarf was drunk; he could smell the alcohol rolling off him in waves. Stupider men had said stupider things to his lady when sober. There was no point berating the fool. “Mind your tongue, Warden,” he muttered and Varric turned away, seemingly disappointed. His mind was occupied anyway; he would rather save his fury for the Queen.

If Oghren meant to respond, he would have to wait. Lord Bernard came into the hall, a seneschal and Joss followed after him. The Lord seemed very excited about something; he smiled when he spotted Genevieve.

“I’m glad to see you up, your Worship,” he cleared his throat nervously. “We were—” he paused and corrected himself. “I was hoping you would be the guest of honor at the feast in your name?”

Blackwall saw Genevieve smirk at his bumbling words, but it disappeared a moment later and she honored Lord Bernard with a polite smile and curtsy. “I would be honored, my lord.”

Lord Bernard smiled and offered her his arm. “Tomorrow night then, would you walk with me, your Worship? I don’t think anyone has given you a proper tour of keep. And you can tell me what foods and drink you prefer,”

Genevieve politely accepted and Blackwall followed after them, determined to keep her in sight. He would not allow the Queen to corner her again, or Bernard, or Hawke for that matter. None of them could be trusted. Genevieve knew that, he knew it. And soon, he figured, the others would too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, short cooldown chapter. Sorry for that. Don't worry Seb/Hawke fans, there will be some Hawke and Sebastian coming up. I haven't forgotten about them.
> 
> Comments/Kudos/Bookmarks/Subscribes are always appreciated!


	16. Chapter XVI: Varric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

_**Chapter XVI – Varric** _

It was late, and they were _still_ arguing. Varric rolled over in his bed and looked up at the ceiling. He was trying to block out the words. Choir-Boy was the quieter party and Hawke the louder, but Varric’s room was right next to them, and he heard every word that passed between them. This was the second night they had been fighting. Ever since the Inquisitor informed them that Hawke had persuaded her to help the Queen of Ferelden.

“I didn’t ask you to come out here,” Hawke had repeated that line more than once—it was the backbone of her argument. “I didn’t ask you to bring the fu— _her Worship_ out here either!” close one, the f-word typically cost her a few silvers. Sebastian made her dump coins in a jar for every bad word that came out of her mouth. The moment they’d gotten here, Varric had witnessed her curb her language, at great physical annoyance to Hawke, who liked her colorful Ferelden tongue.

“I’ve already told you,” Sebastian began, _again._

“Oh, I don’t need to hear it again, Sebastian.” Varric imagined Hawke throwing her hands up in the air and shaking her head in exasperation.  

“Well, you’ll hear it again,” Choir-Boy growled, Varric tried to remember the last time he’d heard Sebastian so angry. “You go missing for months—your letters stop. What did you think I would do? Sit idle in Starkhaven, wait for you to gallop triumphantly back home?”

Hawke’s bitter laugh followed by; “It would be so much easier that way wouldn’t it?”

“You’re letting the world’s problems drive a wedge between our marriage. _Between us_.”

“Don’t pretend this is all new, we’ve been drifting since I let you put _this_ on my finger.” Varric inwardly groaned. That was mean— _that_ would cut deep.

_Oh boy_ , Varric thought and rolled onto his side in hopes that he might finally block it all out and get some sleep. And I thought the Inquisitor and Blackwall were—his thoughts were cut short when someone forced open his door and slammed it shut.

“You asleep?” Skylar Hawke asked, her voice was hoarse.

Varric sat up. The room was dark, so he couldn’t see anything but her outline. “No, not with you crowing next door.”

If she was embarrassed, it didn’t show in her voice. “You heard that?”

“Every bit.”

“Sorry.” They were silent for a while, just staring at each other in the dark. Varric thought about getting up and finding a candle, but he couldn’t light it without leaving the room. “I’m going to sleep on the floor,” she finally said.

“No way, Hawke,” Varric sighed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“No, no,” she padded across the floor, took an extra blanket off the bed and sat down on the floor. He heard her sigh when she lay down. Varric started to count to ten; he got to seven when she sat back up. “We’ll share,” she muttered.

Varric moved over to make room for her. They had shared a bed before—out of necessity, of course. He admired Hawke, as a friend. Despite their friendship, it was awkward, and he found himself scooting over to the edge of his side. Varric sighed, looked up at the ceiling and then over at Hawke. She was awake too, and probably would be. She’d always been a bit of a nightowl, but he figured her argument with Choir-Boy would keep her up.

“Sebastian tell you about Daisy?” he asked after a time.

“Yes.” Hawke muttered. “Thank the Maker. I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to her.”

“The Inquisitor sent her to Skyhold. She’ll be safe there,”

More silence. Varric tried to picture the moment in ink. _While the Champion’s words could tell you much, it was her silences that told you the most. No man or woman in Thedas could say so much in total silence. True, she loved her witticism, her riddles, and her jokes. But Skylar Hawke was a woman who knew when to shut up; she was most dangerous when she was quiet._

“You want to talk about it?” Varric asked. 

“Heh,” Hawke chuckled. “Things were not…perfect when I left Starkhaven,”

“I don’t think they _were_ perfect when you went to Starkhaven, Hawke. No offense.” Varric knew Hawke well. He considered her a sister. Although he had never thought she would be _a Sister_. Varric wouldn’t have called whatever it was that drew Sebastian and Hawke together, courting. But in any event, they’d been drawn together—perhaps their shared loss of family, or maybe Sebastian had been taken in by Hawke swashbuckling joie de vivre? Personally, Varric felt it was the opposite; Hawke had been drawn to Sebastian’s stability.

Hawke had promised to marry into the Chantry; it had come as quite a shock to everyone in their little group. _“I’ll have him any way I can,”_ she had told Varric when they were alone. _“Even if I must share him with Andraste.”_ Her eyes had been shining green then, tearful, because she had given so much, but the Prince would not give up his church.

“Do you remember what you said to me? Before the wedding?” Hawke asked, bringing him back to the present.

He did, they hadn’t been very nice words and she had argued with him. “Something along the line of; ‘doesn’t Andraste have enough? Call it off and make him actually marry you?’ and you said, ‘shut your bloody mouth, we’re in a Chantry,’”

Hawke sighed and sat up. “Well, you were right,” another sigh. “Everything was fine when we fled to Starkhaven—okay, well _not_ fine, but as good as they can get when you’re Kirkwall’s public enemy number one. And with the Grand Cleric’s death, it seemed Sebastian was ready to leave the Chantry behind, not completely, but enough to begin his ascent to the throne.”

“And?”

“This isn’t going to go into a _Tales of the Champion II_ , is it?”

“On my honor as Tethras,” Varric chuckled. There wasn’t much honor in that regard.

“How about on pain of death?” He could practically hear her smirk.

“Fair enough,”

“The bottom line is, he made promises and he didn’t keep them. Then the Elder One crisis happened and I was desperate to be away for a time.”

Varric knew she wasn’t going to like what he was going to say. Hawke was the kind of friend who wanted her friends to listen and nod in an agreeing manner, even when they didn’t agree with her. “I get separating for a bit, Hawke, I do. But— _Andraste’s arse,_ it was _too_ long. He was worried; he had a right to be.”

“I know.”

“When we spoke at Skyhold he could hardly keep his words straight for fear that something had happened to you,” he deepened his voice and put on a fake ascent meant to imitate Sebastian; “ _’I threw my cloak over her shoulders, I vowed to protect her. I’ve failed if something happened.’_ There was a lot of stuttering involved.” Both he and Sebastian had refused to accept that Hawke was anything but alive. Just the thought of her…dead…was enough to bring a deep empty feeling into Varric’s chest.

“I know what he did. I recall throwing my cloak over his shoulders.” Hawke muttered, perhaps offended that he’d dragged the wedding in, perhaps feeling guilty. “But I didn’t want—”

“The point is,” Varric interrupted. “That he loves you—I know that for sure—” _argh_ , he was never very good at sentimental crap. “And you’re my best friend, Hawke. Between the two of us, we were going to find you; it was only a matter of time. You may not want us to find you, you may do your damnedest to keep us off your trail, but Choir-Boy and I will find you. And if we can’t, we’ll get Isabelle, and Fenris, and Daisy, and Red to help. _Then we’ll find you_.”

“You’re serious aren’t you?” she asked, annoyed.

“As serious as death.”

Hawke fell silent then, laid down and curled up. He could tell that she wasn’t sleeping, she was just thinking. He would let her think, but before he lay back down, he reached over and gave her head a pat.

“I’m really glad to see you, pal. Don’t remember if I ever said that.” He settled back against his pillow. “Also, you still owe me six silvers.”

“Ask my husband about that, I’m afraid I spent all my coin on the swear jar last night.” They laughed and settled in for the night.

When the morning came, Hawke was gone. Varric closed his eyes and tried to hear if there was any conversation going on next door. But he couldn’t hear anything. He got up then and bathed himself from a basin on the other side of his room and dressed. The feast was tonight—it was an impromptu affair, based on the way the few servants that worked in the holdfast were rushing around. He skipped breakfast and went for a walk along the courtyard. He hadn’t written anything in weeks, and wanted to get a little blood pumping before he returned to his room and tried to scratch out a few pages.

The courtyard was abuzz with the clash of blunted arms and the heavy _thunk_ of arrows into backstops. Lord Bernard’s men were working up an appetite for tonight. But amid all the clanging and clashing, Varric caught sight...or rather, heard, the angry—almost shrill, Seeker Cassandra.

He climbed the steps to the wall that ringed the holdfast and looked down over the yard. Cassandra was beating against a straw stuffed dummy and shouting at the Inquisitor. Genevieve Trevelyan herself was standing behind the Seeker; the look of boredom on her face was surely a mask. Nightingale and Ruffles had taught her well, she knew how to keep her expressions in check and she took her verbal dressing-down with all the grace someone could when being accused of cowardice.

When it seemed the Seeker’s rant had finally ended, the Inquisitor responded with a curt, “I am sorry you feel that way, Most Holy.” She left the yard, and Varric looked about for Blackwall. Hero had been nearby; he gave Varric a quick nod and followed after the Inquisitor.

Varric looked down at the Seeker. She was still slashing away at the straw dummy. Despite the bluntness of her sword, she had torn several gashes in the dummy’s cloth skin and it was bleeding straw, pooling old hay around the oaken stick that stood in for its legs.

As he watched, the Seeker suddenly grew all the more wrathful at the dummy. She struck it at its neck ripping open the cloth and revealing the top of the pole. The cloth head hung limp at its side, only a thin strip of fabric keeping it off the ground. Varric ground his teeth and frowned. Words were forming in his head although he wasn’t certain this would make good story fodder.

_The Seeker threw her blunted sword on the ground and eyed the carnage with furious eyes. If she imagined her vanquished foe as the Inquisitor, then all we could do was hope that that bit of cloth and straw was all she would turn her rage upon._

Varric sighed. _First the Inquisitor and Blackwall, now the Inquisitor and the Seeker._ Their damned fight had started in Nevarra and he thought it would end there. Neither of them would ever admit it, but they were kindred spirits. They might fight for a day or two—a week even—but in the end, through some unspoken words, they were friends again, almost as if their argument had never happen. But with this— _folly_ , was the only word he felt could describe it—there was an abundance of animosity, as if every fight they had ever had, had been shoved down and was now bubbling to the surface. 

_And let me guess_ , Varric thought to himself, _no one is going to do anything about it?_ He sighed and realized that he could do something about it. But the thought of putting himself in the middle of those two…he held back a shiver. If Cassandra didn’t lop his head off, the Inquisitor might freeze his arse off. Of course, the thought of not doing anything was worse.

Steeling himself, Varric came down the wall steps to stand beside the Seeker. “Was it a glorious battle?” he asked, looking at the broken dummy. The Seeker made a responding noise of disgust. Varric crossed his arms and made to move in front of Cassandra. “So,” he began, as the Seeker fixed him with a glare, he suddenly found himself wishing Bianca was with him. He was always confident, but he always felt _sure_ of that confidence so long as his trusted crossbow was on his back.

“What?” the Seeker snapped.

_Oh come on, Tethras, you dealt with Hawke last night, you can deal with Cassandra_. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Seeker, you know I have the highest respect for you,”

She balked; “And where did you find this newfound respect?”

“ _Newfound?_ Seeker, you wound me!” he laughed, it was nervous, but he didn’t think she was perceptive enough to notice it. “I’ve always respected you,”

“Disobeying my orders, refusing to tell me the whereabouts of Hawke…you certainly have a funny way of showing it.” Her anger had calmed and a look of humor settled in her eyes.

“It’s a writer thing, you wouldn’t understand,” Now that humor had been exchanged, he moved in for the kill and the main topic. “So, the Inquisitor—”

On that word, whatever humor had found the Seeker, it left, blown out like the flame of a candle. “What about her?” she growled.

“You uh,” he frowned and decided that beating around the bush wasn’t the best way to deal with the Seeker. “You said some pretty awful things to her the other day,” Cassandra sneered, but didn’t respond. “I don’t think you meant what you said, but does she know that?”

Instead of responding, the Seeker sheathed her blunted sword and began cleaning up the bits of ripped fabric. Varric sighed; he wasn’t sure if she would ever answer him, or if she was simply going to ignore him until he left her. But Varric wasn’t a dwarf who gave up so easily.

“Okay,” he said, after the silence took on annoying tinge. “Look at it this way—two of the most powerful women in Thedas _are_ fighting.” He crossed his arms. “And that doesn’t strike you as worrying?”

“The Inquisitor has made her choice,” the Seeker grunted and then started for the keep.

Varric chased after her, all the while thinking that Chuckles might have had the right idea. First he’d chased after Blackwall, then he’d given marital advice, and now he was trying to reconcile the Inquisitor and the Divine. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They hadn’t been like this when there was a hole in the sky or a murderous red lyrium _magister-demon-monster-thing_ out to kill them. What had changed now?

“Come one Seeker, you know this can’t continue.” He called after her; she picked up the pace and entered the holdfast. He probably would have said more if the hall hadn’t been filled with people setting up for tonight’s feast. And in any event she had gone up the stairs, probably to her room.

Varric sighed and saw Sebastian sitting at one of the unused tables. Choir-Boy was halfway through a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea; he had a book open on the table with him—the Chant of Light, Varric figured.

The Prince looked up from his book and greeted Varric with a nod. Varric sat down with a sigh. “Something wrong?” Choir-Boy asked.

“Mommy and Daddy are fighting,” Varric said, droll as it was. Sebastian seemed to think about it for a moment and then nodded.

“Perhaps it will blow over? Maker willing, that is.”

Varric hoped he was right. He probably would have spent more time dwelling on the Seeker and the Inquisitor, but Sebastian closed the book he’d been reading and Varric noticed it wasn’t religious text at all, but a copy of _Tales of the Champion._

“You and Skylar had a talk last night,” Choir-Boy noted. His voice betrayed nothing, Varric wasn’t sure if he was angry for Varric’s meddling, or simply curious as to what had been discussed.

“Yeah,”

“I’ve been reading the bit on Skylar and I,” the Prince placed his hand on the book. “ _A fairy tale romance, if there ever was one_ ,” he quoted. “A lie.”

“Contrary to what everyone thinks, I didn’t think it appropriate to incorporate every little thing about Hawke’s sex life.”

Choir-Boy balked at the mention of sex, but it lasted mere seconds, and his serene look returned. “You have my thanks, Varric. I’ve read this book twice, you know. And I never truly noticed that.”

Varric let a smirk tug at his lips. “Too caught up in _‘how did I get this beautiful warrior woman pick me over the broody elf, the pirate queen, and possessed maniac?_ ’”

They shared a laugh and Sebastian said; “Something like that,” then he added. “We talked—I’m still mad, and I have a right to be—but I will be by her side, no matter what.”

“Good to hear, I guess.” He sighed, and excused himself. By now he wasn’t really up for writing, but he went up to his room and sat down in front of a piece of paper for a few hours. The more and more he thought about his companions, the more and more he noticed the fundamental _wrongness_ of it all. He did what he did best, he wrote it down.

_It was as if there was a cloud hanging over the small holdfast. Most occupants were oblivious to it, but there was no denying that it hovered over the Inquisitor and her companions. It was more than mutiny and discourse, more than almost ruined friendships, more than a quarrel of lovers—something dark lay upon them all. And sooner or later, it was going to rain._

Varric placed his quill down and left the paper to dry. The feast would start soon and he was loath to miss roasted pig and fresh baked bread. And ale, the promise of ale got his feet moving.

The main hall was not yet filled up and the feast had not been served in earnest. But there was bread and cheese and flagons of ale and wine scattered on the half dozen tables. At the front of the hall, a table of honor had been set. The Lord’s chair was set at the center of the table, the painted sigil had been worn away and whatever creature it had once depicted had been lost to abrasive time.

Varric found a quiet spot and poured himself an ale and smeared a bit a pungent cheese onto a slice of bread. It didn’t take long for Blackwall to appear and join him. “I’ve given Lord Bernard leave to escort her to the feast,” he informed when Varric asked why the Inquisitor wasn’t on his arm. Hero was used to downgrading his appearance when it came to events; Varric just hoped that one day he would get his chance to escort her to some fancy shindig. It would be rather romantic, and he couldn’t wait to get the chance to write it.

Blackwall poured himself a drink and they chatted amicably for a time. At some point, the hall began to fill with men-at-arms, villagers of importance, and the Grey Warden’s that had come along with the Hero of Ferelden. A troupe of musicians appeared, their singer sang off-key and the drummer lost the beat twice during a lusty song about Anderfel girls. Varric hoped they would sound better after a few drinks.

The music stopped and the hall quieted when the Lord Bernard entered, the Inquisitor’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. He was followed by Choir-Boy and Hawke, Queen Anastasia behind them. Cassandra was nowhere in sight. It was a rather somber procession; the only one who looked even remotely pleased was the young lord, although the Inquisitor was doing her best to smile.

While Bernard gave his little welcome speech, Varric eyed the guests. Hawke had put on a fine looking tunic with leather jerkin, soft linen breeches, and knee high boots. He could tell by her stance that she was wearing a brace of daggers under that tunic. And a knife in each boot…he frowned when he saw her expression.

“Are we expecting trouble?” Varric whispered over to Blackwall.

“No,” Blackwall muttered. Varric was hard pressed to believe him, but he had no time to press him. The crowd erupted into cheers when Lord Bernard finished his speech and the feast commenced. The high table was served first, then the rest of the food was distributed the lower tables.

The pork was succulent, the bread crusty and warm, and the butter freshly churned. It wasn’t nearly as elaborate as a Skyhold feast, but it was homely and tasty.

As night came upon them and alcohol released inhibitions, the tables began to mingle. Several guards and peasants went up to the high table to beg the Inquisitor’s favor, so that they might kiss the hand touched by Andraste. As Varric had hoped, the minstrels sounded better after a few drinks, but he had no urge to dance or sing along. He’d put away his share of alcohol, but when he had noticed Hawke nursing the same cup of wine through their meal, he called for some water, and some more bread.

Blackwall was deep in conversation with a few of the Wardens and the Inquisitor was looking over to where the Queen sat with the dwarven Warden. _Pot_ , Varric reminded himself, unable to recall his actual name.

Varric got up and took a seat by the Inquisitor. “What’re drinking?” he asked politely and made to refill her cup.

“A sweet red,” she answered without a trace of mirth. “It’s not very sweet, nor is it very red.”

He helped himself to a sip and had to agree with her. “So I spoke to Cassandra,” he began.

The Inquisitor leveled him with an ever so slightly amused smirk. “Oh,” she sung. “And how did she take it?”

“Not well,”

Her giggle had a bitter tone. “What else is new?”

Varric sighed. “Have you talked to her since…”

This time she didn’t bother to hide the acid in her voice; “Not so much a conversation as _being yelled at_.”

Varric could recall several times a mere conversation with the Seeker had turned into a one-sided shouting match. Although, at least in the Inquisitor’s case, she had the option to walk away. He had been lucky _not_ to get tied to a damn chair.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll come around,”

The Inquisitor didn’t seem to echo that sentiment, but she didn’t put voice to it. They lapsed into silence and Varric was seized with the feeling that they were on some kind of mission and that he was out of the loop.

“Is something going to happen?” He asked, confused. It was true that Hawke rarely went anywhere without her daggers but she wasn’t the kind of person to pass up on free ale. And the Inquisitor was as lively as well…as a corpse. Blackwall was tense too, Varric figured, he was just better at hiding it.

The Inquisitor broke her staring match with the Queen to answer him. “No,” she answered a bit too sharply. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Sure? What’d you need?”

“Tell a good, long story,” she rose. “Excuse me,” then went over to Hawke and whispered in her ear. Varric watched the two go over to sit with the Queen. The Inquisitor grabbed a flagon from a passing servant and refiled the Queen’s cup before her own and then Hawke’s. They toasted something, but Varric could see how uninterested they were in whatever it was they were toasting.

Sebastian joined him then, looking as confused as he was.

The Prince sat down, and scratched his head. “Do you ever feel like we’re pawns in a game?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Varric grunted, carefully studying the three women. He couldn’t hear anything over the damned music, but they seemed defensive. Hawke was standing against the wall, arms crossed over her chest and the Inquisitor was sitting legs crossed, hands in her lap. _A mission_. Varric thought. _Like Orlais._ _The Inquisitor is playing the Game_ , he realized. _And Hawke is her Nightingale._

Varric got up.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian asked as Varric grabbed a chair and started for the corner of the hall; prime storytelling real estate.

“Playing my part,” Varric muttered. He didn’t know what the angle was or why the Game was being played. What he did know was that the Inquisitor had given him a job, and he would do it. He jumped up onto his chair, clapped his hands, asked a passing servant for more ale, and bellowed out. “How many of you know the story of how our brave Inquisitor tamed and rode the dreaded dracolisk?”

That caught some attention. “The beast in the stables?” Someone asked. “I hear it eats meat!” someone else cried. “Bill said it crawled out of the Fade with her,”

“I’ll answer all your questions in time, my friends,” Varric laughed and sat down as a small crowd came to listen. Even Lord Bernard turned his attention away from his conversation. Blackwall was still speaking with some of the Wardens, but a few of them had turned to listen.

Someone passed him a drink and Varric took a deep swig, holding out the anticipation for as long as he could. He set his drink down and said; “It started with a gift and a bet,” he launched into the story. A wild dracolisk given to the Inquisitor as a gift from a well-to-do Orlesian noble. And it went from there; “nearly took her hand off,” a nice long pause for laughter. There were more laughs as he recounted their friend’s mockery, bring the Inquisitor down to the human level.

As he spoke, he chanced a few glances over to where the Inquisitor and Hawke were doing their work. It didn’t look like they were getting anywhere, but Varric kept up the story. _Let it never be said I didn’t do my part._ Varric couldn’t remember when or even how it was he’d so drastically changed from businessman to ally of heroes.

_It started with Hawke_ , he thought, _and carried on to the Inquisition._ He got to the part about the Inquisitor ridding her dracolisk for the first time and then stole another glace at Hawke.

Hawke met his eyes and nodded. An unspoken _“keep it up.”_ And keep it up he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out my tumblr: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks for the comments/kudos/bookmarks/subscription! 
> 
> Interested in how the Inquisitor tamed the dreaded dracolisk, Fiend? Do you like lame jokes and awkward romance? Then A Fiendish Friend is for you! I just finished my story, A Fiendish Friend, and I would love it if you checked it out! 
> 
> Here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3593691/chapters/7926225


	17. Chapter XVII: Sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note before the chapter. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I will have to hold off updating for a few weeks. I really wish I didn’t have to do this to you guys, but I’ve been called to preform my civic duty and am currently serving on a jury. This has been consuming all of my time and I’m exhausted, but I wanted to give you guys one last chapter before I take a sabbatical.
> 
> Thanks for understanding, you guys are awesome. I’ll be back, I promise.

_**Chapter XVII – Sebastian** _

Although everyone (especially his wife) seemed to forget that he was sneak. Sebastian had spent his youth sneaking in and out of his family’s palace, in and out of brothels, bars, even the Chantry when he had been less resigned to his fate as a Brother. He could eavesdrop with the best of them—maybe not as well as Skylar, whose hearing was selective—but he could pick up snippets of what was being said between the three women. The Inquisitor was doing most of the talking; she had a gift for it. A soft voice, an almost childish look in her eyes that she seemed to summon at will, all of this working to make her look like an innocent, ignorant youth. She did not look like a woman who ran the Inquisition, or the woman who had installed Empress Celene safely to the Orlesian throne, or brought low a false god. She knew how to use that look to her advantage.

Hawke, on the other hand, was quiet. And as Varric had written in his _Tales of the Champion_ , Skylar Hawke was at her most dangerous when she was silent.

Sebastian wasn’t sure that whatever it was between the Inquisitor and his wife was friendship—or just a mutual respect. In the end it didn’t matter, they were _allies_ , that much was clear.

Allies, he could only assume, as the two sat around the Queen of Ferelden, against her. For what reason—he could only guess. The tension between the Queen and his wife had been palpable, from the first moment he’d seen them in the ruins. Skylar _did not_ like Queen Ana.

“If you wait, I will give you men to help,” the Inquisitor did not whisper, but she wasn’t very loud. Sebastian couldn’t hear the answer, but it didn’t please either party.

Behind him, Varric was still recounting the taming of the dracolisk, and Serah Blackwall was speaking politely with some of the Wardens. It was all very staged, he thought. But he sat and listened, trying to pick up more of what the Inquisitor was saying. Desert was being served now, nothing too spectacular, just crumb cake and cherry jubilee. Sebastian helped himself to a slice of cake and pretended to be interested in Varric’s story.

The cake was full of nuts and fruit, he ate half of his piece before watching the three women rise from their chairs and quietly step out of the hall. Sebastian found himself fighting off the urge to follow after them. He was supposed to be a stronghold of self-control, but he found his feet moving, almost of their own volition.

In the end he took responsibility for his own body and took to the shadows. He would follow them and listen in; maybe he might glean something about Hawke’s strange tenseness. Before the feast she had been strangely quiet, coiled like a serpent, but still able to find an easy smile—just enough for someone not so familiar with her to not notice how anxious she truly was.

Sebastian followed the soft sound of female voices. He picked up Hawke’s voice immediately. He knew they were in one of the back halls, near the servant’s quarters, but he dare not peak around the corner to see them. It was dark in the halls, only a few candles flickered in their sconces. The darkness coupled with the shadow of an ancient suit of armor made for a void of gloom where he could hide and listen.

“If you will not wait for legitimate help, then at least have the decency to tell us your plan.” Hawke was saying.

The Queen answered. “My plans are my own, you’ll follow them, and that is the end of it.”

“My people will help, you just have to give us a chance,” the Inquisitor, she didn’t sound angry—not like Hawke, but she was frustrated. “I can forgive your threats; I will help you, but if—”

“I’ve been playing politics a lot longer than you, _your Worship_ , you may forgive threats, but will your proud Commander forgive? Or Leliana?” The Queen answered. “And besides, the First Warden holds one of mine a hostage; I’ll not risk her life by marching an army to Weisshaupt. Our small little unit will suffice.”

“They don’t need to know,” the Inquisitor responded. “I don’t have to tell anyone. It’ll just be me, asking for aid so that I might help an ally— _a friend_.”

“I am afraid that ship left port long ago, your Worship.” A sigh. “I am sorry that it came to this, but we three have defined the Dragon Age like no one before us could ever dream. The Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall, and the Herald of Andraste—I _like_ these odds, I wish I had had them when I stood against Urthemiel.”

Skylar let out a bitter laugh. Sebastian recoiled at the sound of it, like she was scared—Anders had once made her laugh like that—before she had…Sebastian shook his head, now was not the time to dwell on past mistakes.

“You may not like your odds when the fighting starts,” Hawke said, her tone so bitter it raised the hair on the back of Sebastian’s neck. “We may be all the more inclined to let a hoard of darkspawn swallow you up,”

“If I’ve been killed, I can assure you _Princess Vael_ , that you are already dead.”

 _That was a threat._ Sebastian felt a surge of anger. He knew how well his wife could take care of herself, she didn’t need to be looked after, but he still felt like her protector as two soldiers in a host might protect each other. He should have jumped up then and confronted Anastasia, but he felt glued to his spot, they would not have disappeared into the servant halls like this if they had wanted to be heard.

“One day your threats will bite you in arse.” Hawke growled. “But I suppose it’s good to know how Warden’s get their recruits, threaten their loved ones and they’ll come flocking to your ranks. Know whatever good you did, _your Majesty_ , it died here in this backwater.” Sebastian knew that was the end of their exchange and so he pressed himself against the wall as the footsteps echoed down the hall. The Inquisitor and Hawke passed by, their heads together, completely unaware of his presence. He waited for their footsteps to ebb away before hurrying back to his room.

Sebastian closed the door behind him and looked over the bed. “Maker’s breath, you fool.” He murmured to himself. Threaten their loved ones…he felt like an idiot. _She’s being blackmailed, Andraste forgive me my mule-headedness._ Fighting with her for a full two days like some stubborn idiot—he was the wedge between them.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress and put his head in his hands. They had spoken only a few hours before, she had asked forgiveness and begged for some time to adjust—they would talk when they were home safe and that she still loved him and didn’t mean the cruel things she sometimes said. He had promised to give her time; it was only fair. But he was still angry, had had the right to feel so. Now he realized it was misplaced.

It didn’t take long for Hawke to make her way upstairs. She came in quietly then saw him sitting on the bed. “Oh,” she muttered. “I thought you’d be sleeping.” If she intended to say anything else, he stopped her. He took three great strides across the room and took her into his arms. He did not mean to kiss her as unchastely as he did, but his hands found the small of her back and pulled her in close. Skylar seemed surprised at first, but she fit against him perfectly; the way he had long ago imagined his lady wife might.

When Sebastian finally let her go, she leaned back, although he kept his hand splayed on the small of her back and kept her close. Skylar examined him with careful emerald eyes and said; “And what’s brought on this sudden bout of affection?”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.” He muttered softly, eager to return to her lips.

“See what?” Skylar asked, confused.

Sebastian sighed. He would have to tell her that he spied on her private conversation; she may not appreciate that. After a moment to collect his nerves, he guided Hawke to the bed and offered her to sit. She did, taking his hand in hers as he sat down beside her.

He missed the delicate intimacy. The way they could sit in the same room, not speak to each other at all, but still feel closer. The Amell manse had had a lovely, comfortable sitting room. And when not out in the streets bringing her wild vigilante justice to Kirkwall, she relaxed in her sitting room sharpening knives while had sat beside her, reading one of the many volumes she’d collected. Sometimes they had sat holding hands and exchanging riddles back and forth until the other was stumped (always Sebastian, Hawke had an unnatural knack for riddles).

“I overheard you in the halls,” he finally said.

Hawke fixed him with curious eyes but said nothing. She motioned for him to continue. He did, taking her silence as a good sign.

“I heard Queen Anastasia, in the halls. She threatened you,” It had been a threat. And he understood what Hawke had been insinuating. If he were a better man, he might have confronted the Queen on the matter, but speaking to Hawke was always his first instinct. Even back when they had been in Kirkwall—merely friends—he had felt compelled to speak with her on important matters.

“Hum,” Hawke scratched her chin and her eyes darted around the room as if she were searching the air for what to say to him. Sebastian waited quietly for her response. Their fingers were still entwined and he found himself rubbing gentle circles on the top of her hand.

Hawke shifted so that she had turned to face him. She took both his hands in hers and gave him a smile tinged with worry. “Most women would be rather put out upon hearing their husbands were spying on their private conversations,” she didn’t sound angry, in fact it sounded like she was about to tell a joke. “I find myself at the crossroads of upset and proud. You’re well on your way to becoming me,” and she laughed, deep and throaty—the kind she made when there wasn’t much mirth to be had.

Slowly she leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling back and telling him everything. She had begun her journey with every intention of informing the Grey Wardens what had had transpired in Orlais and then returning home to Starkhaven. But the Queen had pulled her out of Weisshaupt under the cover of night. They came to Lord Bernard’s holding then and were set upon by darkspawn. When it seemed they had gained a respite, Skylar had let her intentions of returning to Starkhaven known. Before she was even packed to leave the Queen had cornered her and had made threats over the one thing Hawke could not loose— _her sister._

Hawke was not the kind of woman to roll over and allow others to commander her via threats. But when Bethany was involved, even the tiniest hint of a danger to her sister was enough to make Skylar show her throat. Aveline had taken Bethany and a few other Wardens far away from Orlais, only to return when the plot against the Warden’s had been foiled. 

“Just one letter—one word—and Bethany…” Hawke trailed, she was fighting tears. Sebastian knew that her sister’s safety was never far from her mind. “That wretched bitch could have her sent on a solo mission to the Deep Roads,” Sebastian soothed her with a gently touch of his hand, he would let her have that curse.

“And then you and the Inquisitor showed up,” she wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. The fear had been replaced with anger. “And she’s threatened to make us all take the Joining.”

“Does the Inquisitor know about all this?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes, we were trying to get her to reconsider,” a sardonic smile came to Skylar’s lips. “But Wardens don’t get drunk like the rest of us,” and then she explained that the Inquisitor had tried plying the Queen with strongwine, but it hadn’t been enough.

Sebastian reached into the pocket of his tunic and withdrew a handkerchief. “But the dwarf—”

“Only because he doesn’t drink anything else,” Hawke grumbled and she took the cloth from him and dabbed at her eyes. “The Inquisitor claims she was able to send a letter, but mine had been shot down.”

Sebastian nodded; he understood now why she hadn’t sent him anything. Why her last note had been brusque. When he thought of friends, he had hoped she meant Fenris—who was wandering the countryside killing slavers and bandits the last time he had heard. But now that he thought about it, the more and more he felt like an idiot. The words had been written sarcastically, but their meaning had been lost in the written word.

Very softly, Sebastian took her face in his hands and said; “We’re together now, she can’t beat us both. What do we do?” His wife always had a plan, even when it didn’t look like she did or hadn’t told anyone the plan.

“We’re playing along with it,” Hawke sighed and placed a hand over his. “There is no refuting that something is wrong at Weisshaupt. I don’t agree with the Queen’s methods, but we should investigate.”

“And then what?”

“Once she has what she wants, I find myself very tempted to turn on her.” Hawke growled and flexed her fingers. “The Inquisitor is a better woman than I. She would let it go, have her Spymaster investigate, and then let the law sort it out. Me? I think a dagger in her belly will do just fine.”

Sebastian frowned. He had done his fair share of killing and had prayed for the souls of those he’d killed. Hawke had always had an easier time of it; she knew in Kirkwall it was kill-or-be-killed. And she would stain her hands and soul in red if it protected those she cared about. The Inquisitor had the right of it; the law would sort the Queen out. People would not take kindly to someone—no matter who they were or what they had done—threating the life of the Herald of Andraste. She was their savior and their saint, chosen by the Maker and his Bride.

“Let the law do its work, love,” Sebastian whispered in her ear. “Now I know what’s been bothering you,” he kissed her. “We can watch out for each other, as it should be.”

She smiled. “No more anchor weighing me down. It feels good to have you watching my back again.” Sebastian nodded and she leaned towards him, their foreheads touching. “Now then,” she smirked, “What do I have to do to get you to kiss me like that again?”

He could not find it in him to deny her a kiss. But Sebastian kept it well in hand. They had problems to work out and he had promises to follow through on, but he did not want to break that _final_ vow of his until they were at home. When he broke away from her and suggested they go to bed, he added, very softly; “There will be plenty of time for this when we’re back home in Starkhaven,”

He could sense her disappointment as she rose and readied for bed. But when they had changed into nightclothes and Sebastian blew out the last candle before settling in bed, she edged close to him. He took her hand in his and placed it over his bare chest, over his heart. Skylar pressed her nose against the crook of his neck and fell asleep there, as he stoked the length of her fingers and spent much of the night chewing over what she had told him. Now a united front, they could keep each other safe. He thanked the Maker for that, and begged Andraste to protect them.

XXXX

As morning broke across the holdfast, Sebastian rose, leaving his Lady Wife to sleep. Years in the Chantry had made him an early riser, although then it had been to say his morning prayers, light candles, and sweep floors. He kept the habit, and the prayers, but now his mornings were made up of reading or archery practice, politics, and planning. Although this particular morning, he went to the holdfast’s private chapel and prayed, then went to the smithy. He needed more arrows, and fletching them himself had always been a favored hobby.

The holdfast only had one blacksmith, and the man was in charge of both arms and plows. He was more than happy to show Sebastian where he could find what he needed.

Sebastian picked through a barrel of feathers, taking only those of chicken and goose. He found a barrel of straightened shafts, cut them to the length of his arm, and then got to work shaping the ends for arrow tips and fletching.

He worked for a good hour, working shafts, stripping feathers, and putting the pieces together. He had ten arrows ready for steel tips when the Queen of Ferelden entered the smithy. She carried her weapons with her, greeted the blacksmith with as easy politeness. She didn’t seem to notice him, until she hefted her shield up onto a worktable and started looking around for tools.

“Good morning, Prince Vael.” She was cordial, her attitude completely different from the way she had spoken to Skylar last night.

“Morning,” Sebastian offered. Hawke had asked him to keep his knowledge secret, so he would play the polite, quiet Prince whenever Queen Ana was around.

The Queen got to work repairing and repainting her shield. Her shield was a heavy kite shape, oak and banded with iron. The sigil was white and yellow checkers with two brown, mabari astride on their forelegs holding up a golden crown. Sebastian tried not to watch as she dipped her brush in a pot of brown paint and colored over a scratch in the wood, giving the dog back its shape.

“My husband gave me this shield,” she said, without looking at him. She must have noticed his stare.

“It’s beautiful,” Sebastian tried to return to his work, but he was uncomfortable with her. He couldn’t help but think of what Skylar had told him. The Queen was _not_ their friend.

“It was his, but he wanted me to have it.” She continued. “Your wife’s bow is yours, yes?”

“Yes, it was my Grandfather’s before me,” he answered, trying to keep his voice even with interest. He didn’t want her to know that he knew. He couldn’t let her be suspicious.

“I was never very good at archery,”

“It took me years of practice before I was even considered for the Archer corps, and by then I was sent to the Chantry.”

“I was trained as a child to take up arms, sword and shield are my favorite, but I am proficient in javelin and spear.” She pulled her sword from its worn leather scabbard. “Silverite,” she held the blade up for Sebastian to examine. It was a beautifully crafted blade; a rune had been inscribed along the length of the fuller. The pommel was shaped like a mabari’s head a yellow topaz clutched in its jaws. “Silverite is good against darkspawn,”

“It’s a fine sword.”

“Yes,” she set her sword aside, moved her shield to a place where it could dry, and took up a whetstone so that she could sharpen her blade.

Sebastian got back to work on his arrows, the gentle scrape of stone against metal, and the clanging of a forge hammer set a languid pace. An hour later and the Queen left him to scour her armor in a barrel of sand. From his place in the smithy, he saw her pushing the barrel up and down the yard.

He was putting steel barbs on his arrows when she returned, pulled her armor out of the sand barrel and placed it on an a stand. As she cleaned the grit from the plate and chainmail, Sebastian sharpened the arrow tips. He was beginning to feel a little more comfortable as morning turned to afternoon. A servant brought them something to eat. Sebastian picked at the cold leg of lamb and contented himself with bread and cheese. The Queen wolfed down her food though, as if she had been starving.

Sebastian recalled a conversation he had had with Bethany. She hadn’t told him very much about the Grey Warden’s but she had confided that it seemed like she could never eat enough. He wondered if that was the case, even with older Wardens.

Darkness was beginning to fall as Sebastian checked over his work. He’d crafted nearly thirty good arrows, enough to fill his quiver and a spare. The Queen was shining her chest plate with a bit of polish. He was about to wish her goodnight when she dropped her cloth and stood ridged.

“Your Majesty?” he asked; she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned and looked north like a dog who’d caught a scent. Her face had turned pale and she closed her eyes as if listening. “Queen Ana?”

She grabbed the hem of his tunic. “Get your wife,” she croaked. “They’re coming,”

He didn’t need to ask her what she meant. “Where are your Wardens?”

“They’re near, they must feel it too.” She leaned down and picked up her newly sharpened sword. “Get to the keep, have them sound the alarm.”

Sebastian didn’t need any more urging. He made for the holdfast, stopping only to snatch up the arrows he’d made, pushed open the doors to the main hall and shouted; “Sound the alarm, the Queen senses darkspawn!” the hall was not full of people as it had been last night, but a few men at arms were drinking and eating in the corner, Serah Blackwall and Varric were playing cards with the Lord Bernard.

Everyone was up on their feet in an instant. “How many?” Serah Blackwall demanded.

Sebastian shook his head. “She didn’t say,” Blackwall nodded.

“Then it’s a fight?” Varric asked, leaving the card of his game.

Before he could answer, the dwarf, Oghren came bounding down the stairs in dirty platemail, his wicked double edged battleax in hand. “I can feel ‘em,” the dwarf growled gleefully. “Let’s kill some ‘spawn,”

“How many can you sense, Pot?” Varric asked, Sebastian made no comment on the Warden’s strange nickname.

“A bunch,” he answered and then took off as a set of bells began tolling and several horns blew in response.

Bernard turned to the men in the corner. “To arms,” he shouted, his voice wavering with fear.

Serah Blackwall placed his hand on Bernard’s shoulder. “We’ll force them back, my Lord.” He assured the youth. “Give the Queen and the Inquisitor command and we’ll roust them.”

It was not by any means a clever bit of wordplay, but Blackwall had successfully convinced the young lordling to hand command over to the more experienced. Lord Bernard called his captain in and told him that the Queen and the Inquisitor had the command. If anything else was said, Sebastian didn’t hear it, he hurried upstairs to dress for battle, _if it truly comes to that._

Skylar was already in their room, she was halfway dressed in her red and black armor. “There you are,” she noticed, fighting the leather straps across her chest. Her daggers were lying on the bed; two of them were already sheathed and strapped onto a leather gusset so that she could sling them over her back like a knapsack. His grandfather’s bow was on the bed too, a quiver half filled with red feathered arrows beside it.

Hawke stopped what she was doing and helped Sebastian ready. Since arriving in the holdfast, he had cleaned and repaired his armor. The keep had not had any white lacquer around, so the scuffs were the paint had been scratched off remained. But it was clean and free of rust. Once he was in his armor, Hawke picked up his grandfather’s bow and held it out to him.

“I think this is yours,” she smiled and pressed it into his hands.

“You should use it,” Sebastian had missed the bow; he had worked hard for to earn it, and had nearly lost it. But that it had so diligently protected Hawke, he could not part her from it. She tried again to hand it to him, but he shook his head. “No; I’ll feel better if you use it,”

She relented, but picked up the quiver of red arrows. “Take some of these then, I dipped them in poison, for the ogres.” Sebastian nodded, took five of the ten, and traded them with five of his own. He picked up the plain yew bow he had brought to Skyhold, hung it over his shoulder and strapped a dagger to his belt.

Skylar didn’t need help putting on the rest of her armor. But he helped her all the same. Sebastian tightened the leather straps that held her pauldrons in place and then held her right gauntlet out so that she could slip her fingers into the supple leather and lobster steel. She flexed her fingers; the gauntlets made her look like she had grown claws. Once in a fight against a Kirkwall gang, he had seen her rake the long claws against a man’s face, blinding him and giving her a chance to jump away.

It was a full dark when they ventured into the great hall. Varric was the only person in the hall. He was gently gliding a block of beeswax along Bianca’s string. He stood, put the wax away and slung Bianca over his shoulder.

“The Inquisitor and the Queen are with Lord Bernard and his captain, looking over the defenses.”

“Has anyone seen darkspawn?” Skylar asked.

“The Warden’s sense them, that’s enough for me.” Varric led them out into the courtyard, much of the holdfast had been deserted; the defenders had gone to the walls. They walked through the small village, all abled-bodied men and women were being outfitted with weapons at the armory. The houses and shops were closed up; the frightened faces of children looked through the windows as they went by.

They climbed a ladder up to the top of the holdfast walls. The Inquisitor, dressed in her mage armor, a black cloak emblazoned with a cloth of silver all-seeing-eye hung around her shoulders, her hair was dripping wet as if she had just gotten out of a bath. She greeted them with a polite nod. Blackwall stood by her side; he was looking out over the darkness, scanning the horizon for any sight of darkspawn. Nearby, the Divine was doing the same, her sword drawn and in hand.

“Where’s the Queen?” Varric asked.

“She and the other Wardens rode out,” the Inquisitor answered. She had her staff in hand; the blade on the end looked freshly sharpened.

“And Bernard?” Hawke walked to the edge of the wall and peered over. They stood over the gate, the gatehouse to their right. Men stood at intervals around the walls. A few torches blazed, but most light came from the half-moon above.

“I’ve told him to walk the walls, converse with his men, keep their spirits up.” The Inquisitor sighed. “Hopefully it’s just a group passing through the Deep Roads; I’d rather not fight them here.”

“The Lord insists this place has survived darkspawn raids before.” Blackwall grunted; “But I doubt it can withstand a siege.”

“We turned three raids in the past few months. They’re disorganized without an archdemon, but no less ruthless.” Skylar had not told Sebastian much of what had transpired since she left Weisshaupt with the Queen, and he found himself a little more than curious. When this was all over, they would have to speak about her time in the holdfast.

“Many of the older men are seasoned warriors; they know how to fight darkaspawn.” The Inquisitor was saying. “They’ve turned hundreds of raids. I fear for Bernard, he is not confident.”

“Or experienced,” Serah Blackwall added.

The Inquisitor nodded and looked over the holdfast. “True enough, I don’t want to be viewed as usurping Lord Bernard’s authority,” she paused, visibly mulling over her next words. “But better a usurper than dead—Cassandra, take the south side wall.” The Divine nodded, their feud temporarily forgotten under the pressure of darkspawn attack. “Blackwall, you will command the gate. Bernard’s Captain Roth will keep the west wall and I will give Bernard the east, Varric, Lady Hawke, keep him in hand.”

“You got it,” Varric chuckled nervously. “Bianca loves babysitting,”

“The Wardens will spread out,” The Inquisitor continued. “Prince Sebastian, you, I, and the Queen will command from the rear, keep eyes on the walls and adjust as we must,”

Serah Blackwall turned and met his eyes, and Sebastian felt as if he had just been set with an important task. _Protect her_ , the warrior seemed to say. _It won’t matter if the walls are breached_ , Sebastian almost said, but he held his tongue and instead asked if they would join him in a prayer.

Faithful or no, they all bowed their heads and Sebastian led the prayer, the Divine and the Inquisitor recited the Chant alongside him. He sang from Trials, the best book for times like these. And when he finished the Inquisitor added. “May Andraste keep us, and the Maker take us to his side should we fall.” Then, forcefully, with the confidence of a leader, she added; “But we will _not_ fall.”

There was agreement and then quiet as they awaited the return of the Queen and her Wardens. Blackwall spotted them first and bellowed out; “Open the gates!”

Sebastian peered over the rampart and spotted the near seventeen Grey Wardens riding at full speed towards the gate. The Queen was leading them on her stallion, and once they were in the gates slammed shut and the portcullis fell down in a clank of iron and steel. The Inquisitor slid down the ladder and called for Sebastian to follow.

The Queen was dismounting her horse as they approached. “I positioned the men along the walls and given command to more seasoned warriors. We’ll command from the rear, spread your Wardens along the wall.” The Inquisitor did not flinch as she ordered the Queen.

To Sebastian’s surprise, Queen Ana nodded. “Good,”

“Did you see anything?”

“Nearly a hundred of them—a large party, but only a raiding party,” the Queen answered. “They’re more organized than usual; it might be an emissary-alpha who leads them,” she saw her horse taken away before turning back to the Inquisitor. “They have at least two ogres; they will toss the other darkspawn over the walls in hope of spreading sickness. Darkspawn don’t have the patience for sieges, but they’ll dig in if they think they can starve us out or whittle us down with the taint. Most like, they’ll rush for the walls and try to climb over or break the gate. If we can find and kill their alpha, we can force them into retreat.”

“Then we wait for them to come?”

“They were on our heels, they’ll come.”

And they did. Sebastian stood over the gate with the Inquisitor and the Queen when an arrow, thick and fletched in ugly black feathers sailed over their heads and found a mark in the dirt street behind them.

“Shields up!” came the cry, started by Blackwall and echoed down the wall. The Inquisitor threw up a barrier, but that didn’t stop Blackwall from shielding her. The Queen was more than willing to offer Sebastian cover, although none of the arrows hit near them.

“Return volley!” Blackwall commanded. Sebastian nocked and arrow and tried to find a mark in the darkness. He saw a hint of movement—a genlock maybe—and fired. Over the twang and _thunk_ of arrows, he could not hear if his shot hit its mark, he could only trust in his sight and instincts.

The Inquisitor stepped forward as Blackwall ordered another volley and she raised her staff, below a line of fire drew across the field, illuminating their foe. Sebastian sighted genlocks and hurlocks, they were clad in crude plate and leather armor and carried a mix of ancient and makeshift weapons. Of the ogres he saw no trace, but that did not mean that they were not there, they merely lingered on the edge of sight. He only saw twenty or so darkspawn, but they may have spread out in hope of probing for a weak spot along the walls.

Below the walls, the darkspawn screeched as the fire burned, cutting them off from the gate. Sebastian spotted a hurlock, took aim along the shaft of his bow and fired, taking the creature in the chest. He ducked behind the rampart as a volley of darkspawn arrows clattered against the stone. One found a mark in a one of the defenders, the man collapsed to the ground, three inches of wicked barb shaft sprouted from his chest. He was dead the moment he hit the ground.

“Sebastian,” The Inquisitor called. “Go to the east wall, report back if they’ve seen anything. The Queen will take the south while I hold here! Go!” she jumped up to cover him, waving her staff over her head and summoning lightning out of thin air.

Sebastian ran along the wall, dodging defenders and darkspawn arrows alike. He looked for any sign of Hawke or Varric. Bernard was standing bravely with his men, firing a crossbow out into the darkness. The young lord hailed Sebastian.

“They’re looking for a weak point,” he said proudly, he must have drawn the conclusion himself. “But we’ll hold them back,”

Sebastian gave the young man a pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll turn them, my lord. Have you seen my wife?”

“Lady Hawke is at the other end.” And then he turned back, crossbow in hand and went back to guarding his wall.

For now it seemed that most of the activity was near the gate, Sebastian was thankful for that. It allowed him to run down the east wall unmolested. He found Skylar and Varric taking turns looking over the rampart with Warden Oghren.

“Gah, blasted thunder-humpers.” The Warden growled as he made a few bunny hops so that he could look over the wall.

“Shall I get you box, Serah Warden?” Hawke asked, a sly glint in her eyes. She spotted Sebastian and greeted him with a lazy smile.

“Piss on your box, woman,” the dwarf growled. “I can sense ‘em, I don’t need to see.” And then he sat down, grumbling.

Varric, it seemed, had given up his pride and was using an upturned crate to peer over the side. “Well Choir-Boy, it’s quiet over here,”

“The gate is under attack,” Sebastian informed them. “I see Lord Bernard has this wall well in hand,”

“A probe,” Hawke noted and made room for Sebastian to sit beside her. “I’ve fought enough of these raids now, their strategy—if it can be called that—is always the same. They rush the gate if they can. But they’ll try climbing the walls first.”

“Or not,” Varric cursed. “Incoming!” he jumped down from his box, Bianca in hand. An ugly roar clashed through the night and Hawke was up on her feet, eyes upward. Sebastian followed her gaze as saw a body hurling through the air. It plopped down before them with a sickening wet crunch and the dull clang of unrefined metal.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Hawke grabbed the hurlock by the neck and Sebastian tried not to wince at her curse. The beast was flailing its arms, groping for its crude sword. Its legs had broken with the fall, but that hadn’t rendered it any less dangerous. Quickly, Skylar drew her dagger as Sebastian raised an arrow. Before he fired, Hawke drew the edge along its throat, spilling murky red blood over the stone.

Without being prompted, Sebastian dropped his bow and helped her throw the hurlock corpse over the wall.

Another roar split the night and this time two genlocks came crashing out of the darkness. One hit the side of the wall and fell to the ground, its target missed. The other landed on top of one of Lord Bernard’s defenders. The man fell to the ground; the genlock screamed in the strange darkspawn tongue and began slamming the man’s head into the stone. Sebastian reached for his bow, his aim was practiced enough, he could kill the genlock without hurting the solider. But the two rolled back and forth and another hurlock came sailing over the wall.

Taking his eyes off the defender and focusing on the hurlock at hand, Sebastian raised his bow used it to put strength behind his fingers and struck out with his fist; the blow would have broken the nose of a regular man, but the hurlock merely looked dazed and raised his sword. Varric put two bolts into its back before it could attack.

Quickly, Sebastian turned to find the hapless defender, but he could not find him, and then saw, sadly, that they had tumbled off the opposite side of the wall. The man with broken neck and the genlock, dying of a wound in its side. Sebastian put an arrow through the creature’s eye, not out of pity, but for the poor man. He said a soft prayer; many others might well die tonight.

“Sebastian! Get to the Inquisitor!” Hawke was shouting. Now a hurlock was climbing over the wall, she raised her dagger and cut his hand from its wrist, sending the beast back to the ground. Two genlocks, screaming and waving their ugly swords, came flying through the air. Like pheasants on the wing, Sebastian killed them in quick succession and they hit the ground in ugly crunchy-wet thuds.

“Hurry up, Choir-Boy!” Varric shouted, aiming Bianca in the air and taking out another creature the same way. “It’s raining darkspawn out here and I imagine the Inquisitor would like to know!”

Sebastian left them without a word. He had no time to worry about his wife as he dodged around defenders and darkspawn. He saved a man’s life by knocking a hurlock down as it poised to strike, put an arrow through the neck of a genlock trying to hike over the rampart.

He found the Inquisitor watching a skirmish between Queen Ana, Blackwall, and set of hurlocks who were using the portcullis as a ladder. “The East wall is dealing with an ogre,” he reported as she lifted her hand and a spark of lightning erupted, lighting up the night and casting a momentary glow on the field below. “It’s throwing the others over the wall,”

“Just as the Queen said,” the Inquisitor muttered over the din of battle. “Cassandra sent a runner, they had a few climb the walls, but they were taken care of and now it’s quiet.”

“Hawke said they’ll probably rush the gate,”

“The Queen too. This place is an outpost; it was built to deal with darkspawn—back when there were more Grey Wardens.” A hurlock climbed over the walls and spotted them, the Inquisitor went forward, staff blade thrust out like a spear and took the beast through the throat. The creature gurgled and tried to grab her, but she removed the blade and it bled out in seconds.

“Has the alpha been spotted?” Sebastian asked, the Inquisitor shook her head.

It when on like that through the night—a small group would climb over the wall or be thrown only to be dispatched just as quickly as they arrived. Sebastian spent most of his time going back and forth between the gate and the east wall. Skylar had spotted the ogre at some point and had tried to bring it down with her poisoned arrows; she had only managed to scuff its leather jerkin.

When the first dregs of sunrise spilled over the holdfast, it became apparent that the darkspawn had scrambled back to whatever crevasse they had crawled out of. Sebastian was hopefully that the beasts had returned to their lair where they might rot away or wander the Deep Roads in search of easier prey, but when the Queen and her Wardens returned from riding out again, she shook her head and proclaimed they would be back.

“There are more of them than I thought.” and when the Inquisitor asked what had driven them to the surface in the first place, the Queen shrugged. “A cave-in could have cut them off from the others, or their alpha feuded with another and was cast out of their hole—with darkspawn it’s hard to tell. They’re driven to search for their next archdemon, but…” she paused and said, quietly. “There have been anomalies,” when questioned further, she would say nothing else and told them it was best to get some rest while they could. Sebastian held Skylar’s hand as they trudged up to their bedroom.

He was wondering at the edge of the Fade, half awake and half asleep. He wanted to go back to sleep, and even reached over the side of the bed, searching for Skylar. He found her, pulled her into his embrace. She yawned and snuggled into his chest. Just as he began to fall back into the Fade, the sound of Blackwall’s horn pulled him back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry about the late update and the break. Thanks once again, for understanding and for sticking with Hawke Hunt! I have many other fics that might tide you over, if you need something to keep you busy until the DLC (the Descent) comes out on Tuesday. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions are always appreciated! Thanks!


	18. Chapter XVIII: Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back, thanks for waiting so patiently.

_**Chapter XVIII – Blackwall** _

Blackwall raised his horn to his lips for a third time. His alarm echoed through the village and holdfast, waking any sleepers and calling men to their stations. The last beams of sun were spilling over the plains, and in the gathering dark Blackwall had sighted movement. The Queen had been right, the darkspawn were returning, and there were more than a hundred of them.

For a moment he felt dizzy and wondered if this was some kind of preclude to another Blight. He did not pretend to know much about the Grey Wardens, (all he knew he gleaned from books and from legends)—but Wardens were supposed to dream before a Blight, that the Archdemon would call to them as it called the darkspawn. None of the Wardens had said anything about Blight, and that calmed him. Thedas had just finished with the Breach; it was not ready for another darkspawn incursion.

Forcing himself to calm down, he looked out of the horizon and spotted the devilish horns of an ogre. He could hear the screeches of hurlock and genlock and the shrill cries of ghouls. They had organized themselves into lines. Nothing so sophisticated as the marching lines of true soldiers, but it had the semblance of strategy—of a force intending to besiege.

The Queen and her Wardens were the first to reach his side. Queen Ana made no indication of what she felt as she looked over the assembled horde. “There,” she suddenly pointed out over the sea of ugly brutes, “the Alpha, the hurlock with the staff,”

Blackwall followed the line of her finger and found the leader of the war band. He was bigger than the others, better fed or bred or whatever it was that made some darkspawn superior to the others. It carried a gnarled looking staff of black wood and wore what appeared to be Warden’s plate, a trophy from some poor soul the creature might have killed in the Deep Roads.

“Is it an emissary?” the Warden, Oghren asked. He could not see over the rampart.

“Yes,” the Queen answered.

"Damn, well if that thing wants to talk—”

“ _Quiet, Oghren_.” the Hero snapped and then turned away to address the rest of her Wardens. Blackwall had no time to listen in as Genevieve came up the ladder, dressed in her armor, her staff in hand.

Blackwall pointed out the Alpha and saw her shudder. He would have drawn her in close, but the battlefield was no place for affection. “Why are they just standing there?” she asked, he had no answer for her.

Quickly, she turned to the Queen. “Can you sense any more of them?”

The Queen shook her head. “They’re going to rush the gate.” She spoke with certainty. Blackwall did not like her, but she had the confidence of someone well versed in the way of darkspawn. “We kept them at bay the other night so they’ll try to overwhelm us now.” She pointed along the wall. “We’ll line our archers along here, split the pikes and swords along the other walls—to watch for scouts, though I doubt they’ll break from the main force,”

Genevieve agreed and began splitting groups of archers and swordsmen. It was a lot easier to get everyone organized once the rest of their companions arrived, and the men rallied when Lord Bernard arrived.

It seemed like hours had passed as the men were organized and the darkspawn took up their positions. But it was the mere passing of minutes as the last ray of sunlight fell. Blackwall had had a quick chance to count their foe—almost two hundred—they were evenly matched in numbers. But with darkspawn it was their ferocity that gave them an edge. Their insatiable lust for blood, their juggernaut mentality—they didn’t have to outmatch so much as wear down the defenders.

Blackwall left the rampart and found Genevieve speaking with the Prince and Princess. They would command the archers; she would provide them light with her fire spells, and Blackwall and Cassandra would stand ready to send any who came over the wall, back over it.

And then, drawing his sword, Blackwall found himself staring back down at the enemy. He stood beside Genevieve, ready to defend her with his life. They were going to come over the wall, but he would throw them back down.

“They’ll break against the wall,” Blackwall declared, in hopes of reassuring her. But he found her with her hands clasped together near the head of her staff, her head gently press against her knuckles. She was praying and when she finished, she saw no reason in letting them stare each other down. She called for a volley.

In a husky brogue, the Prince called out. “Nock!” the only sound to be heard was the sound of arrows drawn. “Draw!” an ogre roared and the darkspawn charged. “ _Loose!_ ” they had no more than fifty archers, but the twang of bowstrings filled the night…and then the sweeter sound of dying darkspawn followed. But only a few out of the hundred dropped, other arrows hit the dirt harmlessly.

The Queen called for another volley, and The Prince gave the command. More darkspawn dropped, but their cohorts kept rushing forward. They reached the wall and began climbing up, gouging their scaly hands into the stone; some used the portcullis as a makeshift ladder, while others climbed on top of other darkspawn.

Blackwall did not leave his lady’s side, even as the first hurlock pulled itself over the rampart. Cassandra dispatched it with a clean stab and used her foot to kick it back down. Another came crawling up and one of Bernard’s men gave it a rough stab with a pike. A genlock was hurled over by one of two ogres; it died before it hit the stone, one of the Prince’s arrows had taken it through the chest.

Nearby, a man fell to a hurlock blade. The creature turned to Genevieve, but Blackwall strode forward, shield up and sword ready. He met the hurlock with his blade and knocked the beast’s rusted sword away before bludgeoning it with his shield and finishing it with a quick thrust of his blade.

Just as he took his sword from the beast’s neck, another darkspawn rushed him, a crude mace in hand. The monster shrieked and lashed out; Blackwall stepped away and jabbed with his sword, then held up his shield and took a blow to the corner of it. He pushed his shield forward like a ram and drove the creature back over the wall, knocking a climbing genlock down in the process.

As he was about to return to Genevieve’s side, she came forward to cast a fire spell. The defenders had not had time to put up any real defensive measures. Had they had adequate time to prepare, Blackwall would have had them dig trench around the keep and would have filled it with sharpened spikes. Instead, they had thrown bales of hay out along the field and had smothered them with pitch and oil. Genevieve’s fire spell exploded in a display of oily fire and the darkness came alive with the sudden screeches of darkspawn. Many ran a round, flailing their arms and roaring as the flames consumed them.

The fires gave the archers better light and Lady Hawke ordered them to fire at will. One of the ogres snatched up a burning genlock and threw it, despite the fact that it was already dead, the flames came down upon a group of defenders, and they scattered as their clothes caught fire. In his panic, a young solider tumbled over the edge towards the darkspawn, his screams ending when he hit the ground. Despite the carnage, Blackwall heard Genevieve thank the Maker it hadn’t hit the thatched roofs of the village houses.

In response to the ogre setting the defenders alight, Genevieve returned the gesture, raining down fire upon the beast. The ogre roared and pounded at its chest as its bruise colored skin sloughed off like a grotesque candle. But the fire hadn’t killed it, only made it mad, and Lady Hawke with three of the other archers, turned towards it and fired arrow after arrow until it sunk to the ground smoldering and dead.

A group of hurlocks had hauled themselves over the wall Blackwall went to face them; the Queen of Ferelden turned and joined him. Her sword was coated in a thick layer of darkspawn blood and her shield set with fresh gouges. With the mabari shaped helm on her head, she looked like a warrior out of myth—a Grey Warden of old. She was as strong as those legendary warriors too. When the first hurlock charged she stood her ground, shield tucked close against her. With great force and a warcry, she flung the creature over her shoulder, sending it tumbling to the ground.

Blackwall drove his sword into the creature’s chest and then whipped his sword over his head and down, slicing though the chainmail of another hurlock, rending metal and putrid flesh in one sharp blow. As he turned to take another beast down, he slipped in a pool of darkspawn blood and hit his knees, the stone jarring him from spine to teeth and his sword went sliding though the bloody muck.

A genlock saw him fall and started forward, serrated ax lifted over its shoulder. Blackwall raised his shield to defend himself, but the Queen had spotted him. Her sword flashed down, striking the genlock from the crown of its ugly head to the bone of its breast. She used her foot to loosen her blade from its body and then kicked Lady’s Grace back to Blackwall.

Blackwall snatched his blade up, swiped and missed an oncoming ghoul, scrambled back to his feet, and then lunged back at the ghoul, taking its head from its shoulders. He had wandered far away from Genevieve’s side, but he could hear her shouting orders. “Shore up the gate!” her voice was hoarse and thick with authority. “ _Brace the damn gate!_ ”

Quickly, Blackwall turned to see the second ogre charging right for the gate. “Maker’s Balls,” he hissed, his knees felt bruised and he could tell the metal plates that protected his knees had bent inward from the force of his fall. The joints had stiffened, making it a chore to move. Frustrated, Blackwall loosened the straps and tossed the guards aside.

Slippery with darkspawn blood, he waved his sword and tried to rally the other defenders. “To the gate!” he cried.

Lady Hawke was screaming; “Sebastian, bring it down!” the Prince turned to fire a arrow fetched in red feathers.

Blackwall had no time to see if the arrow hit its mark, he made for the ladder and the gate below. Varric, Cassandra, and Warden Oghren joined him, along with a dozen other defenders. Blackwall threw himself against the scarred wood and iron. Other bodies pressed against him and then crushed against the gate, bracing it with collective might.

Blackwall felt the force of the first blow against the portcullis. And the next blow stuck the wood as well. The third struck so hard it rattled through his bones and he bit his lip, drawing blood. To drive the men forward, he let out a battle cry. Varric and Cassandra echoed him, and they pushed against the gate again, holding it as the ogre on the other side bashed away.

As more men came to hold the gate, Blackwall backed away, shouting encouragement. But truly, he dared not be too long away from Genevieve. He knew she could defend herself— _he knew that_ —but he couldn’t bear the thought of her being hurt.

Above, the defenders were trying desperately to kill the ogre, the Prince had emptied his quiver into the beast, and now they had resorted to throwing bits of broken stone at the creature. Its skin was blistered, weeping, and red where Genevieve had tried to burn it. But’s its armor was thicker and stronger than the other ogre’s had been. It roared and slammed its meaty fists at the gate before turning and taking a few lumbering steps back and charging, its head low and horns displayed.

Blackwall felt the force of the charge through the stone of the wall. Sword raised, Blackwall hacked at a hurlock attacking one of the Wardens. He dove into the thick of the fray. With so many defenders occupied with the gate, the other darkspawn had taken their chance to climb over the fortifications.

Spotting Genevieve through the melee, Blackwall smashed the edge of his shield into a hurlock, breaking its jaw. He sliced open the belly of a ghoul, spilling foul blood and entrails green with corruption. He struck without mercy, determined to clear a path to Genevieve. She had somehow managed to find a break in the fighting and was tending Lord Bernard. The young lord had taken a sharp blow to the face, blood spilled down his cheek from an ugly weeping wound.

The Queen and Bernard’s captain stood near, defending them as Genevieve cleaned the wound and forced one of her health potions down the lord’s throat.

“Have courage, my lord,” she was saying. The lad was not crying, but he looked as if he had seen an archdemon. “Your men need your courage,”

“This cannot continue,” the Queen shouted, striking down a genlock.

“If you have an idea, I should like to hear it!” Genevieve yelled, her voice cracked with strain. There was a long gouge in the thin metal of her breastplate, but she looked unharmed if not shaken. She caught sighed of Blackwall. “Will the gate hold?”

“Not if we run out of men,” Blackwall said trying his best not to gawk at the corpses of their fellow soldiers.

“We won’t,” the Queen growled though the slot of her helm. “Call up the men from the gate; I will push this madness back,” she pulled open her visor and bellowed out; “ _Grey Wardens, to me!_ ”

They came running, answering the cry of their commander as if the archdemon were calling them to the Deep Roads. Warden Oghren was the first to her side. He had taken a wound to his arm but he looked as if this was the most fun he’d had in ages.

With her Warden’s assembled and the gate left undefended, she asked Genevieve for a distraction. Genevieve did better than that, and opened a rift in the field below.

“Grey Wardens, you know your oath,” the Queen called, throwing down her visor and sliding her sword along her shield. “I will not waste time reciting it,” as the other defenders rallied to the wall and took up arms against those darkspawn crawling up the walls, she held up her sword. “For the Grey Wardens! For Alistair, _King!_ ” and, the Queen and her Wardens charged over the battlements, throwing themselves down to the foe.

The other Wardens echoed her cry; “For the Grey Wardens!” “For the Glory of Orlais!” “For Antiva! For Thedas!”

“Maker have mercy!” Genevieve shouted, watching the Wardens vault over the wall. The darkspawn corpses below made for a decent landing.

Warden Oghren was the last to jump over. He raised his double edged ax and laughed, jumping and landing atop the ogre. The beast screamed when the ax bit deep into its flesh. The dwarf yanked the ax out and landed deftly on the ground, swinging it at anything that got too close.

“Have they gone mad?” someone cried.

“Maker, save us!”

Blackwall turned to see what Genevieve was doing. She followed the trail of carnage left in the Warden’s wake. Her rift was closing, and Blackwall saw that for each inch of ground the brave Wardens took, they lost two. Three Wardens had gone down in the onslaught, and their sudden attack had not stopped the darkspawn from scrabbling up the walls. Blackwall smashed his shield into a genlock and threw it back over the battlement; he sliced the head off a hurlock who’d pulled itself halfway up the rampart.

Cassandra came beside him and stabbed a ghoul in the neck before it could jump him. He thanked her with a brisk nod and looked for Genevieve.

“They won’t last down there!” he heard the Prince shouting. “Fire a volley!”

“No!” Genevieve snapped. Blackwall followed the sound of her voice. She was standing on the parapet; staff in hand, the crystal at the top glowing. “Keep them off the walls,” then she screamed down at the Queen; “Wardens pull back!”

Blackwall had felt the pull of the Veil before. An unseen force was tugging at him, like the way a breeze might pull at his clothing. It was like the air was being sucked in towards Genevieve. He knew she was working some powerful magic—he wanted to get closer to her, to keep her from falling off the wall, but he feared what might happen if he did get too close. It was times like these that made him remember that she was a mage; she didn’t have to carry a sword because _she was_ the weapon. She flung her left hand out and slammed the head of her staff against the stone.

Suddenly, Blackwall’s ears popped, the wind turned tempest, the sky opened and boiled. Flame roared down from the heavens, whistling and whirling and striking the ground rolling it like an earthquake. Below, flames erupted around the darkspawn. They screeched and fled, their skin burning, their ranks broken. A cheer went up along the wall and those darkspawn still remaining were cut down in their panic.

The spell finished as quickly as it was cast and the world fell silent. Blackwall ran forward and took Genevieve’s hand in his; he helped her from the ramparts. She stepped down on shaky legs, but did not lean against him, she held her head proudly and called for the gates to be opened and the Warden’s given a hero’s cheer.

“Three cheers for the Wardens and the Inquisitor!” Lord Bernard ordered. “ _Victory!_ ” it echoed down the wall three times; swords slammed against shields and pikes and spears hit the stone in a wild tattoo.

The Queen and her remaining Wardens reentered the holdfast, five of their fellows had been felled, and all of them had taken injury. Shouts of celebration broke out, Bernard called for beer and meat and another feast. But the Queen, bleeding from a wound on her cheek shook her head and decreed the battle won, but the crisis unfinished.

“Rest and fortify the holding, we are not done yet,” the Queen ignored all sounds of disappointment and looked to Genevieve. “I must speak with you and your friends.”

Genevieve nodded; Blackwall was about to protest, but Lady Hawke did it for her. “In an hour,” she growled and then took Genevieve’s staff, handed it to her husband, grabbed Genevieve by the waist, and helped her into the main hall and up the stairs to the room she and Blackwall shared. Their friends followed, even Cassandra, who had fallen into an uneasy truce with Genevieve.

Free from the sight of soldiers, she crumpled into a chair. Blackwall set his sword and shield against the wall and took the staff from the Prince. Varric flagged down a servant and called for a flagon of hot spiced wine, water and rags, and something to fill their empty bellies.

“Are you alright, your Inquisitorialness?” Lady Hawke asked, kneeling beside Genevieve.

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “I used a lot of mana,” a slight smirk; “there is a reason why I save those spells for special occasions.”

“Couldn’t have thought of a more special one,” Varric noted gruffly. He had taken a seat on the floor, Bianca beside him.

“Let’s get this off,” Hawke helped Genevieve out of her armor. Her breastplate was dented and rent, it would need repair. Blackwall checked himself over. He had taken some scuffs and had lost his knee guards, but other than that, he was unharmed.

When food and wine arrived, Hawke shoved a cup of warm wine into Genevieve’s hands. Genevieve didn’t really seem to like being fussed over, but she didn’t protest and let the Princess wipe the sludge of sweat and blood from her face.

They all took turns cleaning their faces and helping themselves to food and drink. Blackwall sat down next to Genevieve’s chair and sighed. Hawke poured Genevieve another cup of wine and she shared it with him. It was warm and flavored with pepper and cardamom. He took a bit of salted pork and bread too, but it was plain fare and he found himself eating to keep himself from falling asleep.

When Blackwall began to drift off, Genevieve rose from her chair and said it was time to meet the Queen.

The Queen had taken one of the empty storage rooms and commandeered a table to act as a makeshift war room. She had laid a map over the table, one end of it ripped as if she had taken it from a book. Blackwall looked it over and found it was a map of the Deep Roads. When they had all assembled in the room, the Queen closed the door.

Her wounds had been tended and she had removed her heavy armor, but she had belted her sword to her side. She did not beat around the bush when she spoke; “We are not just dealing with raiding darkspawn,”

“Is it a Blight?” Cassandra asked, her voice strained.

“No.” Blackwall sucked in a breath, glad to hear that at least there wasn’t going to be an archdemon at the end of this road they’d taken. “I think it’s a broodmother,”

“Dare I ask what that is?” Genevieve had leaned heavily against the wall, she looked exhausted— _depleted_ , he thought might better describe it.

“A closely guarded secret,” the Queen nearly smirked. “It’s bad enough that darkspawn are known for taking slaves, worse when we tell people what do to our women.” She paused and looked over the map. “If I’m right, you’ll see it soon enough, your Worship. For now, let’s just say that darkspawn don’t spring out holes in the ground.”

Blackwall did not want to think about that. He _did not_ want to think about how darkspawn came into the world. It was better to just think of them as growing out of rocks like deep mushrooms. And he was glad when no one questioned the Queen any further.

“So, let me guess?” Varric’s voice was thick with scorn. “We have to kill it.”

“Master Tethras, we have to find it first.” The Queen pointed to a spot she had marked on the map. “When we rode out the other night, we spotted this cave in the mountainside. It probably leads into the Deep Roads,”

“Probably?” Varric snorted.

“Out here, all caves lead to the Deep Roads.” She traced a line up from the mark towards a complex simply marked _“Thaig.”_ It was the size of a small village, nothing that marveled the maps of Orzammar Blackwall had seen. “When we go and search for this broodmother, we have to seal the cave entrance off,”

“And cut off our escape!” Cassandra yelled.

“On that end, yes.” To the Queen’s credit, she remained calm and even-toned. “But if we follow the road up to this Thaig, we can enter Weisshaupt,” she gently tapped her finger against the map and Genevieve stepped forward to examine it.

“Like a secret passage?” she asked.

“Something like that—or a Ceremonial entrance for the Calling—I’m not sure. In truth it doesn’t matter, it can get us in the fortress.”

“And what about out?” Varric asked.

She did not smile or smirk, she merely shook her head. “I will be keeping that to myself until the time comes, Ser,”

Behind him, Lady Hawke shuffled uncomfortably. Genevieve had taken a step away from the table. Blackwall could see her straining with the weight her next words. He knew what she would have to say, and he knew how much it hurt her.

“When do we leave?” she asked, and the words hung over them like a wet blanket.

“As soon as we’ve gathered our supplies,”

“The Inquisitor can hardly stand!” Hawke slammed her fist on the table. “We’re exhausted, we don’t have your Warden’s stamina—we can’t—”

“Darkspawn don’t get tried, or hungry, they don’t need rest or morale—they’ll regroup in the Roads and then tomorrow night they’ll relaunch there attack. We need to close that cave and kill their leader or more people will die—need I remind you, Princess Vael, the _lives_ in danger here?”

If Lady Hawke had a response, she kept her mouth shut and stifled her anger with a clenched fist. Her husband reached over and took her hand, pulling her away from the table and more confrontation.

“Darkspawn don’t wait,” the Queen continued. “I understand your limitations, normally I would leave at dawn, but I will concede to midday. Horses can’t survive the Deep Roads, we will travel on foot.”

XXXX

Dressed in armor and wrapped in cloaks, they made their way across the desolate Anderfel prairie. Queen Ana led them, Warden Oghren behind her, followed by Lady Hawke, her husband, Cassandra and Varric, with Blackwall and Genevieve bringing up the rear. They were laden with bags of supplies—food and water, Genevieve’s herbs and potions. It was slow going.

They had not wasted their short rest time. Genevieve had fallen asleep the moment their meeting had ended, and Blackwall had joined her. He woke first, and gathered their things and ensured the stable boys knew how to handle Fiend. Genevieve had said her farewells to the beast and Fiend had tugged at her cloak, imploring her to stay. Blackwall would have sworn that the dracolisk seemed to know something they didn’t; he screeched and roared as they walked away, slammed his crest against the pen; but Genevieve did not look back.

Lord Bernard promised to keep a constant look out and swore he would heed the advice of his seniors. The rest of the Queen’s Wardens would remain at the holdfast, while they journeyed into the Deep Roads. _It will be best this way_ , the Queen had said, _the fewer men the better._

It didn’t seem like they were making any headway, but when Blackwall turned around to check on Genevieve, he found the holdfast was nothing but a smudged dot on the horizon. Genevieve was using her staff to help keep her upright. She had thrown the hood of her cloak up to help keep the sun off her face. The wind wasn’t so harsh down in these red dirt plains, so there was no need to wrap their faces—still, Genevieve had wrapped herself with a sea silk scarf.

“Go on,” she stopped, leaning heavily against her staff. “I’m alright, just need a breather.”

“I wouldn’t dare leave you out here alone, my lady.” He had taken her knapsack near an hour ago. Unburdened by her bag, she had been able to keep up with the rest of the group, but now she was failing fast. She hadn’t had enough rest. “You need more sleep,”

“When a mage opens themselves up fully to the Fade, like I did last night; it can take days to recover stamina. I’m alright,” she had tried to explain to him what she had done; but Blackwall still didn’t understand the nature of magic the way she did. Only, that maybe it was true what he had heard the Inquisition mages muttering—that she was one of the most powerful mages of their age?

“ _The mark_ ,” she would tell him whenever he asked. “ _The mark made me stronger_.”

With a deep breath, Genevieve continued after their companions. On horse, this would have been a quick trip, but it was almost evening when they came upon the cave.

The cave yawned open like a hungry maw. It drank the sunlight and the stench that came from it reeked of death and rot. _Darkspawn,_ Blackwall thought, _definitely darkspawn._ Without a word, the Queen rifled around in her bag and withdrew a torch wrapped in fabric and soaked in pitch. She struck flint and the torch went up allowing her to light several others and pass them around.

“They’re still reeling from last night’s battle.” The Queen mumbled as they entered the cavern. “We’re not at risk now, but we shouldn’t tarry.”

Blackwall held up his torch and waited for Genevieve to enter. She placed her hand on the moist cave wall. “The Veil is thin here,” she threw her hood back and tugged her scarf down. “How will we seal the cave? I’d do it but…”

“With this,” the Queen set her bag down and withdrew a sealed clay pot. “It’s a variation of Antivan fire. Warden’s used it when there are no mages available.” She put the pot back into her pack and took them deeper into the cave.

Although the stench of corruption was thick around him, Blackwall did not see the signs of it. They came upon a crevasse cut into the rock. It looked as if the stone had been scratched away—not with tools, whose cuts would have been more even—but with bare hands. The Queen squeezed through the crack and they followed after her.

The crevasse opened up into a larger fissure and there Blackwall spotted the first semblance of corruption. A fleshy webbing the color of old bruises covered some areas of the wall in a thick, gummy coating. Where it was sparse, Blackwall could see the well hewed and decorative stone of the dwarves. The stone was colored in greys and red, with glass panes similar to that of Valammar, the Hinterland Thaig.

Warden Oghren took a jar of oil from his pack and splashed it onto one of the walls where the corruption was thick. “Stand back,” he chuckled thickly, struck flint to stone and the oil caught. The flames spread quickly over the webbing, spilling thick oily smoke into the air and lighting up much of the cavern.

But the flames could not penetrate all the darkness, from left to right the Deep Roads were so dark that anything might be lurking there and they would not see it until it was too late. It seemed only natural, that the Inquisitor and her brave companions—who had braved cursed marshlands, war torn Orlais, and the Elder One himself—would scrunch in close to one another.

Blackwall kept Genevieve in his line of sight. She was wrapped up in her cloak and resting against a clean wall while he, the Prince, and the Wardens set jars of explosives around the crevasse. They could not collapse the crack in the wall, but they could bring down the Deep Roads around it.

When they had finished setting the jars, the Queen tied them off with a trail of cotton rope soaked in oil. Weapons drawn and torches up, they walked down the road until they were a good distance away from their entrance.

“The explosion will draw the darkspawn here, as will your scent,” the Queen explained, after she finished setting the wick. “When this goes off, we must run. And we will not stop running until I say so.”

Blackwall could sense that Lady Hawke did not appreciate taking orders from the Queen, but she put no voice to her distaste. Just as well, he thought. He didn’t think they had the time to deal with an argument.

“Ready?” The Queen asked, lowering her torch to the wick.

“Let’s get this over with,” Cassandra murmured irritably.

Beside him, Genevieve called a few wisps of light and sent them ahead into the darkness. When Blackwall made to protest, she shook her head as an immediate dismissal. He didn’t want her to exert herself any further, but he couldn’t stop her even if he tried.

“Oghren, you’ll lead,” the Queen said, touching her torch to the wick. The cloth went up easily and the flame followed the train of cloth, oil, and pitch. They all watched for a moment as it flickered down the hall; when it hit its first offshoot, they turned and ran.

They were well away when the explosion rocked the Deep Roads, although they couldn’t escape the cloud of dust that came billowing down the road. Now, coving in a fine layer of dust as well as breathing it in, they ran almost blind, into the dark.

“Once one sees us,” the Queen croaked, her face covered in dirt, “or hears or smells us or dies by us, they’ll _all_ know—be ready.” She let out a wheezing cough and drew her sword. Blackwall would have done the same, but with two packs on his back, having his sword in hand would make no difference. He was too laden down to be maneuverable enough for a sword fight. So right now, running was all he could do.

There was no sense of time when they were running. If day had passed into night and night back to day, then Blackwall had no idea. They could have been running for hours, or minutes…even that had begun to clump together into bits. At some point they had slowed to scramble over a ruined pillar, and then the torches had gone out and they were forced to rely on Genevieve’s wisps for light. The Prince had tripped over a pile of skeletons and cut open his chin. They ended up at a dead end and were forced to backtrack. Even with the Queen’s assurance that she sensed the darkspawn had made for the explosion and that none were nearby, Blackwall still felt trapped.

It was like they were mice who had willingly locked themselves in to the keep’s kitchen. He did not like the feeling of being hunted, or wandering through this endless darkness. There wasn’t much hope that they would actually find the broodmother. He found himself wondering if the Queen would give up the search if they didn’t find it, or if she would force them until their stores ran out—he imagined Lady Hawke might mutiny before it came to that.

When the Queen finally called for them to stop, they were all out of breath and filthy. Sweat and dust had mixed together to create a coating almost as thick as mud. Blackwall ran the back of his hand over his face to keep the filth from getting into his eyes. It wasn’t working; they ended up itching and watering anyway. Beside him, Genevieve had turned a ghostly white. The dust covered her from the crown of her head to the tip of her boots, when she wiped the dust away; he saw that she _was_ pale, maybe even sick and that made him all the more worried.

Blackwall finally tore his eyes from Genevieve and surveyed where they had stopped. It was a cross section in the road, one section had been choked off by a cave-in and another was blocked by a rusted gate. With a good push, Blackwall was certain the gate might simply crumble into red dust, but he had no interest in trying.

At the center of the intersection was a small building carved of stone. It was windowless and half of it was a ruin, but it looked sturdy enough and closed off—they would be able to rest here for a time.

The corruption was abundant along the walls, fleshy sacks hung from the ceilings like horrible bats. The webbing was so thick in once place that it had spilled out onto the floor and when stepped upon it made a wet sound.

“Where are we?” Genevieve asked.

“A guard station,” Warden Oghren answered. “Thousands of these things peppered through the Roads.”

“The dwarves used them to keep order back before the Blight.” The Queen finished. “Be ready,” she said as when she pushed up against the stone and metal door. Blackwall dropped the packs and drew his sword, if there were darkspawn inside they would have to kill them quickly. Cassandra and Hawke took up his sides, while the Prince and Varric would cover from behind.

The door gave in with a squeal that echoed harshly down the passageways, Genevieve flung a spell wisp into the darkened fort and they flew around, bringing light to every corner. The Queen entered first, then Genevieve—Blackwall followed directly after her, and stuck close as they made a thorough search of the ruins.

Whether by the Maker’s Grace of dumb luck, it was empty and they had a place to rest for a time. The ruin had been emptied of all furniture and trappings. In one corner was a pile of broken pottery and refuse. That was all that remained of the dwarves who once worked here.

The Queen relit a torch and found an old sconce to give them some light. They gathered around on the floor while Varric passed around rations of salt pork and hard tack.

Blackwall settled himself beside Genevieve and Lady Hawke. Genevieve laid her head against his shoulder and Blackwall took her hand in his. She fell asleep almost immediately after finishing her food.

“Oghren and I can sense darkspawn, even though solid stone.” The Queen whispered. “The rest of you should sleep, we will take the watch.”

Blackwall laid down his sleeping mat and curled up with Genevieve. He fell asleep in an exhausted haze and then woke gradually and found himself in the pitch dark. For a moment, he panicked and quieted. He felt the gentle weight of Genevieve’s head nestled against his shoulder and then the soft, even breathing of his companions. It took him a few seconds to realize that the torch had been moved from the sconce on the wall and taken over to the corner of the room. The Queen and Warden Oghren were crouched there; the dwarf holding up the torch while the Queen looked over their map.

They were whispering to each other. The quiet, almost nonexistent whispers of someone used to hushing their voices when in the Deep Roads. He didn’t like to think that they were planning without the rest of the group. He almost sat up to announce his presence. But he thought better of it. As at the feast only a few nights before, when Genevieve had asked him to keep the other Warden’s distracted with “ _grizzled warrior talk_ ,” he had also been told to listen. Blackwall would never pretend to not know much about secrets, of that there was no doubt—it was learning other people’s secrets that he lacked the tact for.

_“Talk, drink, act natural; as if it’s any other party—but listen, you never know when something might slip out,”_ Genevieve had told him before the feast. He would do just that; act natural, as if he was sleeping, and listen.

It was so faint that Blackwall could only guess some of the words being said. He strained, hard, and translated their murmurings.

“I don’t understand,” Oghren was saying. “I thought these tunnels were supposed to be clear.”

“It’s impossible to keep the Deep Roads clear, Oghren, you know that.”

“Well… _yeah_ ,” the dwarf grumbled. “I mean, look at how thick the corruption is,”

“I am aware,” the Queen didn’t seem particularly interested in what he was saying. “And if I am right, and there is a broodmother.”

“And if _you’re_ wrong?”

“It’s not a Blight, Oghren. I can tell. I haven’t had any dreams, none of the other Wardens either.”

“This must have something to do with that nug-humping mage. Weisshaupt should never have—”

“We’ll talk about that later; for now, wake the others, it’s time we get moving again.”

Blackwall closed his eyes quickly, and tried his best to look like he had been sleeping the whole time. As they ate and got ready to head out into the Roads again, Blackwall couldn’t help but think about what Warden Oghren had said of a mage. He made a mental note to speak to Genevieve about it when they had more privacy. _Of course_ , he thought as they stumbled through the Roads on quiet feet, _that is if we ever get a moment alone in this place._

They plunged further into stone and darkness still fearful that the Deep Roads might swallow them up and never let them go.

 


	19. Chapter XIX: Leliana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will probably move updates to Saturday, my new semester began and I'm a little pressed for time. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter XIX – Leliana**

From the top of her rookery, Leliana had an excellent view of the valley below. Here she could see little ant-like people working about the half-finished Village of Skyhold. When completed, it would be wholly unique; an entire village cut into a mountainside, docks along the lake and river, handsome lodges on the forested valley floor. And crowning it; the largest Chantry since the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux.

Maker and his Bride. Andraste’s likeness, carved from the granite of the mountain, flanked the right side of enormous stone and iron doors. And on the other side, the almost finished statue of their Inquisitor stood, left hand outstretched, reaching ever towards the slightly taller Andraste. In her right hand, Genevieve Trevelyan held a staff, the granite was unfinished there and looked as if she carried a crude cudgel. _The Chantry of Our Lady’s Herald_ , they were calling it, a tribute to the Inquisitor—to the Herald and the power they believed had been handed to her by Andraste.

Leliana knew the truth of the mark, but that didn’t diminish her faith. _Divine Providence_. Maybe the Maker had not sent his Bride to put the power into Genevieve Trevelyan’s hands, but she _had_ been chosen.

Thinking back upon the Chantry, Leliana wondered when she would get the chance to tour it. Josephine had told her that the stonemasons were eager to show off their handiwork, despite it being unfinished.

She caught the scent of wood smoke on the wind and turned to view the forested area. Fall was coming; summer would come to its end within a few weeks. Most of the village housing was expected to be completed by then, but many of those who had decided to take up residence in the valley would be without a home for another winter. Tents, blankets, food, anything that could be spared was sent immediately to the refuges. They still poured in from all over Thedas. Elves, men, dwarves—all kinds. No one was turned away, as per the Inquisitor’s orders. All were given sanctuary and the protection of the Inquisition. “ _This place is home_ ,” the Inquisitor had said, when they first laid eyes upon Skyhold. “ _For anyone who will have it_.”

_Home_ , Leliana thought. The last home she had known was at Justinia’s side and when she died, Leliana had thought that place of belonging was gone forever. But here, in Skyhold, she thought she could live, could call this place home as so many others did.

On a distance forested slope, Merrill and her City Elves were making their camp. They had brought their own tents and provisions, but had not been above taking what the Inquisition offered them. When Merrill arrived she had promised to keep her people out of the village and out of the way, as if their presence was a bother to the other refugees. Cullen had told her, if there was any problem with the villagers, to tell his men and they would sort it out. But even after promises of acceptance, Merrill seemed adamant that their stay would be temporary.

Those men from the Exalted Plains had been different, however. They had taken up work building houses for the village. Toulouse and his grandfather where their leaders; they showed it in their dedication to finding their families. Every now and then the two would climb up to the Keep and ask if the Inquisitor had returned or if their families had been found.

“Our families will have a place to call home when they return, make sure they know that when they’re rescued.” The old hedge-mage always said at the end of their meetings. Leliana and Cullen hadn’t had the heart to tell him that his village had been found, burned to the ground, no souls in sight. At first, Leliana had to admit, that she hadn’t trusted the refugees in the least. But with evidence of their burned village, it was harder to see them as anything but poor farmers turned out from the only home they had ever known.

She had called her scouts back and ordered them to renew the search for those she’d sent after the dragon. She still held out a vague hope that they could be alive, but Leliana knew that if they hadn’t returned by now, it meant they wouldn’t. It was a glorified body recovery, but she still called it a rescue, if only to keep up morale.

Behind her, Harding cleared her throat: “Uh, Sister,”

“Yes?” Leliana asked, turning away from the landscape and down at the dwarf. Harding was her best; strong, loyal, and smart. She had everything it took to be a scout, a spy. _One day_ , Leliana always found herself thinking, _I will be gone and you will be Spymaster._

“You might want to see this,” Harding held out a letter, neatly crimped and sealed with orange wax stamped with the seal of the Chantry. 

“Where did you get it?”

“One of our Templars thought it was important for you to see, instead of giving it to Mother Delphine, well—you know.”

Mother Delphine; a shrew if there ever was one. She was callous and close-minded and bumbled through the Game like an ogre in the Grand Cathedral. Leliana still wasn’t sure how she had managed to rise so high in the Chantry hierarchy. Family connections, was the best assumption.

If the letter’s seal had been broken, Harding had done an excellent job resealing it to look untouched. Leliana took a small knife from her belt and gently loosened the wax from the parchment. She flicked it open, preserving the seal just in case.

It read:

_Revered Mother Delphine,_

_If what you say is true, then it behooves us to action. If the Inquisition refuses to bestir itself, then it falls to me to discover what has happened. If the Inquisitor is such a devout Andrastian as I have heard, then she will adhere to the orders of a Grand Cleric. I have left Val Royeaux, and will be traveling to Skyhold to investigate the disappearance of our Divine-elect._

_I tell you truthfully, Delphine; if such an egregious misjudgment can happen while the Inquisition stands watch, then I find myself unsure in their ability to protect Thedas. If the Divine is not found or the Inquisitor fails to answer a summons, we may be forced to call upon what few Templars we have and search for our Divine ourselves. What you have told me truly worries me. If this is a kidnapping then I fear the repercussions._

_But we must not dwell on that. I will get to the bottom of this. There will be no finger-pointing until everyone has had their say. Maker watch over you, Delphine – Grand Cleric Mavis_

Leliana folded the note neatly and looked at Harding. Then, she crumpled the paper, unable to control the sudden bout of rage. “That meddling… _nosy harridan_ ,” she growled.

“I’d call that an understatement, Sister.” Harding agreed with a small smirk.

“How is this the first time I’ve heard of this? When did she contact that Grand Cleric?”

“We’re spread thin, Sister, somethings have slipped through the cracks.” Harding wasn’t one for making excuses. Leliana took this as a plea for more men. “We were lucky someone caught this,”

Leliana nodded. “Make sure our Templar Friend knows the Inquisitor appreciates his service.”

“And the Grand Cleric?”

“Waylay her. I don’t care how. Break her wagon wheels, get her stuck in the mud, lame her horses, steal them—it doesn’t matter—slow her down then swoop in and offer assistance. Give us time to prepare.” She paused, formulating a plan. “And take Ser Marbrand with you; have him talk the Inquisitor up, tell him to hint at Delphine’s incompetence.”

Harding nodded. “You got it, and the letter?”

“It won’t make it to Delphine. Let the Cleric’s arrival be a surprise, as Delphine intended to us,” she thrust the ball of paper back at Harding, who unfolded it and took the edge to a candle flame. Leliana watched the flames consume the parchment. She did so enjoy the Game.

XXXX

News of the Cleric’s letter was met with a silent outrage. Cullen, to his credit, didn’t seem surprised and didn’t demand Delphine removed from the keep at once. Josie sighed and began scribbling away on her board.

They had gathered in Cullen’s office; Delphine kept eyes on the war room, as if she might be able to gleam some bit of information though solid stone and timber. It had become annoying, prompting them into the habit of moving their meetings to different places. Sometimes Cullen’s office, sometimes the tavern—once in the kitchens with Belinda the dwarven cook filling their plates with trifle and their goblets with wine.

“I will see that the Cleric’s needs are met, I don’t know very much about Mavis—she’s newly appointed; I’m sure Revered Mother Giselle knows something.” She scribbled something down. “No feast, I think. It would be too obvious if we were overly prepared for the Grand Cleric’s arrival.”

“I’ve sent Harding to delay her,” Leliana tugged at the fingers of her right glove. “That will give us some precious time, for now.”

“What do we tell the Cleric when she does arrive?” Cullen asked, his tone reminded Leliana of his outburst only a few months ago. He was still unhappy that she hadn’t sent scouts to track the Inquisitor down and even angrier when his troops had returned escorting Merrill and her City Elves instead of the Inquisitor.

_“Following the Inquisitor’s orders,”_ their captain had told them when Cullen threated to see them punished for failing in their duty. The captain showed them the letter and Leliana had authenticated it. Signed and sealed by the Inquisitor herself and the orders were clear. Cullen had been forced to let the matter drop. Although now Leliana noticed that his anger was warping into worry.

They were all worried, of course. But their Inquisitor and their Divine had weathered more dangerous and difficult challenges during the war. Finding Princess Vael would be _a piece of cake_ —as Fereldens oft said.

“A lie, of course,” Leliana chuckled. Lying was Leliana’s second nature. You didn’t become a bard and a spymaster without being a liar. Josie was good at it too; it was part of being a politician after all. But Cullen. Cullen was an honest man. A commendable trait for a dashing knight, but not when playing the Game.

“We’ll tell her what we’ve told everyone else.” Josie smiled, taking note of the unsettled look on Cullen’s face. Just the talk of lying was enough to make their poor Commander nervous. “The Inquisitor was called away to Weisshaupt.”

“We’ve _just_ been saying it’s an important mission,” Cullen frowned. For someone who hated lying though, Cullen had a talent. He kept Delphine at bay and they were all very thankful for him.

“Yes,” Leliana smirked, taking a bit too much enjoyment out of his squirming. It was like picking on Alistair while Practical Ana watched on, a smirk on her face. Sometimes, especially times like these, she missed her old friends. Ana was all business and sour-faced more often than not, but she was a true friend. And Alistair, he’d grown into a fine king. They would make short work of Delphine and the Grand Cleric...with their swords of course, her Ferelden friends were too honest for the tribulations required for the Game. 

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on old adventures. One day though, she would take a leave of absence and visit her friends.

“We’ll tell her that something urgent has happened in Weisshaupt—a friend stopped her correspondence, right out of the blue,” Josie was saying. Leliana felt a small smile come to her face; every good lie had a kernel of truth. Any master manipulator knew that. “And that the Inquisitor worried this may mean something is happening to the Wardens.”

“When we tell her this, one of us must be sure to bring up the Orlesian Wardens. Remind her what happened to them—even the Grand Cleric can’t deny that the possibility of a dangerous magister requires the attention of both the Inquisitor _and_ the Divine.” Leliana finished. Josie nodded, the plan met her approval. Cullen sighed, resigned to this new lie.

With details hammered out they parted after promising to inform the rest of the Inner Circle in the morning. Leliana headed up to the rookery; she still had work to do and would until late in the night. A Spymaster’s job was never done and even her own people didn’t disturb her when she worked at night.

So it was surprising when she found Cole there, a steaming cup of hot spiced wine in his hands. He didn’t say a word, merely held out the cup until she took it from his hands. She took a sip. It was warm and spiced perfectly with just the right amount of sweetness. Cole had been making her forget he was the one who put sugar and spice into her wine, so when he became more human she was glad to get the chance to properly thank him for it.

“There’s a woman coming here, she’s angry at the Inquisitor.” He said, almost cryptically. Had Leliana not received the letter this morning, she would have assumed it an assassin. It wouldn’t be the first time Cole had hinted at an assassin and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Yes,” Leliana answered. “I know.”

“You’re going to scare her off?” Cole asked and then he pulled out the chair from her desk and offered her to sit. He’d been learning such courtesies from Cullen, Blackwall, and Varric.

“Not exactly,” she smiled.

“The blind one doesn’t like her either,” Wistfully, Cole leaned against the wall.

Leliana smirked, Delphine was certainly blind—not in the literal sense—but blind and foolish. “We’ll deal with that one too,” Leliana assured him.

This seemed to please the boy and he left her without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you guys have been taking the time to read this story, I know its a bit slow and that I'm juggling a lot of characters, but I promise...it will be worth it. Once again, thanks to all my readers! Have a relaxing Labor Day!


	20. Chapter XX: Blackwall

_**Chapter XX – Blackwall** _

_They know we’re here._ Grotesque, slimy looking heads had turned their way. Blackwall thought he could hear them sniffing at the air for a trace of their scent. But they didn’t move from their positions.

The darkspawn had erected crude looking roadblocks made of wood and bits of rusted iron and steel. A bonfire raged behind them; Blackwall wasn’t sure if darkspawn ever got cold—it seemed a ridiculous thing to contemplate, but he couldn’t help but wonder why they had made a fire. All it was doing was blinding the darkspawn and giving more light to the humans who hunted them.

Hunted wasn’t really the right word. They had avoided darkspawn at all costs until now. The Queen said they were drawing closer to the broodmother. She had been uncertain at the beginning for their journey, but as they moved further into the dark recess of the Deep Roads, she became more confident.

Now they had found what loosely passed as fortifications. Darkspawn weren’t truly known for building elaborate defenses, but they did cobble together bulwarks and booby-traps well enough to cause concern. Blackwall didn’t relish the idea of charging their defensive line, but they had to get through this hallway.

The Queen had been working them hard. None of them had had much beyond a few hours of sleep. The deeper they went into the Roads, the more perilous it got. They woke at the sound of any unfamiliar noise, jumped at the slightest touch of wind… _and the smell_. Blackwall had thought he would get used to the stink of musk and death and rot; but it only grew worse. It was almost maddening. During a meal, the smell had been so strong that he’d been forced to leave their little camp and find a dark corner to vomit in. When he’d returned, Genevieve had given him a wad of dried mint leaves to chew on.

There was no shame in getting sick. They all had gotten sick. Cassandra had paled and sickened at the sight of horrifically mangled corpse displayed on a cross, its chest open and rotten organs spilled out on the floor. The corpse wore Warden livery, a cruel reminder of what awaited Grey Wardens at the end of their lives. While they were sleeping during one of their sparse breaks, Genevieve had woken suddenly, soaked in sweat and her tongue bleeding where she had bitten back a scream.

“The Veil is thin here,” she told him when he tried to comfort her. It was not the first time she had said it, nor the last, he suspected. She didn’t go back to sleep after that.

They were all hardened warriors; all of them had faced nightmares, _true living nightmares_. _But this place_ —these Roads. The Deep Roads were taking something from them, sapping their courage and strength. The suppressive darkness wore heavy on Blackwall’s mind and he saw how it was eating at them all. Wearing them away like heavy rain on rock. He feared they wouldn’t be the same when— _if_ —they emerged from these tunnels.

Now though, he had to screw up his courage. He shook away the foggy blackness that coated his mind by grasping the hilt of his sword. The cool touch of _Lady’s Grace_ was comforting, but when he reached over and gently squeezed Genevieve’s hand, he felt a rush of courage. She looked at him, face gaunt. They were well past the point of no return now. But he had someone to fight for, and fight he would.

Beside him, Prince Sebastian pulled an arrow to his chin, Varric raised Bianca, and Lady Hawke raised an arrow dripping poison. They had picked their targets and were waiting the Queen’s command.

If the arrows surprised the darkspawn, they didn’t act like it. An undulating screech went up and Blackwall, Cassandra, the Queen, with Oghren beside her charged up the hall, their shields up. Blackwall rammed into a hurlock and used the spiked fortifications to put an end to it. The creature lurched and grunted as it tried to break away before dying. Cassandra stuck a genlock with her blade but they had no time to make sure the blow had killed it.

Oghren grunted and swung his battleax down breaking a bulwark of sharpened wooden stakes. The wood clanked against the stone and rolled down the hill, but it allowed them to advance.

Blackwall felt an arrow wiz past his head and then a sudden burst of purple energy filled the corridor. Genevieve had targeted a nasty looking genlock at the end of the hallway. It panicked as the spells stuck, but it wasn’t enough to kill it. Quickly, it stood up and waved its dagger over its head. Then, an arrow struck it, this time a greenish goo erupted over the wound and the smell of burning filled the air. Lady Hawke had used acid at the Siege of Adamant and it was potent enough to bore a whole though flesh and bone.

With his shield in front of his face, Blackwall was forced to strike blindly as they crested the hill. The old stones were already slick with darkspawn blood making an already treacherous charge even more dangerous. A spell cracked overhead, raining lightning down on those few darkspawn who remained. The Queen leapt over the last bulwark and finished three darkspawn before they had a chance to react. She had sharpened the bottom rim of her shield so that the iron band acted like a second blade, duller than her sword but still effective.

“We need to move,” she grunted through the visor of her dog helm. “They know we’re here now and close to their nest. We must keep moving,”

And they did, stopping only to fight. The darkspawn gathered in thicker groups and attacked them head on. They brought archers too. Genlocks and hurlocks with recurve bows and thick arrows fletched in black with jagged arrow heads. Blackwall felt them thunk against his shield. He felt the tip of one break through the wood and prick him. But there was no time to stop. They pushed through, out of the tunnels proper and into an antechamber.

Blackwall tried to conjure up an image of the map the Queen had shown them. They were getting closer to the thaig she had told them about; at least he hoped they were. Behind him, Genevieve laid a flame enchantment under the feet of the darkspawn archers. In seconds they erupted in a screams as the flames overtook them. The darkspawn scrambled; fire all around them. Some ran off into the dark and others turned to bull rush their shields. Blackwall drove his sword deep into the chest of a genlock and then hamstrung a hurlock before throwing it over his shoulder to be finished off by Genevieve or one of their archers.

When the chamber was cleared the Queen broke their formation and made for a set of stone and iron doors. Blackwall saw what she was doing and rushed to help her. The Prince took the other side of the door with Lady Hawke and the four of them shut them closed with a rusted screech.

“It won’t last long,” the Queen huffed as she snatched up any debris she could and tried to bar the door. “But we can catch our breath for a moment.”

The chamber was mostly dark, save for the small fires still burning from Genevieve’s spell. To give them better light, she lit the head of her staff and held it aloft as Lady Hawke rifled for their wineskins. Varric asked if anyone wanted something to eat, but they declined.

Genevieve seemed to be doing her damnedest to avoid food at all costs; she chose to chew dried peppermint and elfroot. The elfroot stained her tongue green, but it seemed to make her feel better. Still, Blackwall wished she would eat, not that he was doing any better. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten.

Blackwall unstrapped his shield and let it hit the ground with an angry clamor. His arm hurt now that he was breaking free of his adrenaline. The darkspawn arrow had made it through the solid oak of his shield; the barbed tip had punctured his skin and embedded splinters along his forearm. It was not a clean cut and he winced when he tried to clean away the blood with a cloth.

Genevieve was there before he could even say a word. She didn’t have a potion with her as they were saving them for true emergencies, but she did have a flask of strongwine and a caring touch. She told him to sit and made him take a sip of wine before she began removing splinters. She took a clean rag and poured wine on it. Blackwall hissed when she dabbed the wound clean.

“Will I live, my lady?” he asked, trying his best to forget where they were and instead focus on the charming crease between her eyebrows.

“It’s not fatal,” she assured him and wrapped the wound with silk. He took another sip of strongwine and she left him to tend to the others.

He watched her wrap Cassandra’s twisted and swollen ankle and tried not to think about how hunched her shoulders were. She had been almost relaxed that night in the bath, but whatever rest their time at the Holdfast had given her, it was gone now. The war had put a determined fury behind her blue eyes, but he only saw desperation now. She was focused on survival now. The Queen had threatened and bullied them down into the depths and Genevieve had taken it upon herself to see them out alive.

The last wounds to tend belonged to the Prince. His fingers were blistering and cracked at the joints were he pulled the string of his bow. Genevieve could do nothing for him except clean and bandage them. Breaking through years of hard callous the way the Prince had was proof of how hard they had been going.

Without a concept of time, Blackwall was unable to decide if they had been in the Roads for days or weeks. He did know that he was growing a new blister on the pad of his thumb and the skin had split on his palm and wept clear liquid. He contemplated getting out a pair of gloves he had stowed away, but the thought of how slippery darkspawn blood made everything changed his mind. Instead, he offered them to the Prince, who was thankful for the extra padding.

They left the antechamber behind and crept down a narrow hallway in hopes of taking a few darkspawn by surprise. But they were beyond the chance to take surprise. The darkspawn knew they were coming. Once one of the creatures knew, they all knew.

The hallway gave up to a longer, grander tunnel. Broken statues of Paragons long forgotten stood in shadowed alcoves. Fleshy sacks of corruption clogged the channel and spongy veins ran along the ground like thick bruise colored spider webs. The darkspawn waited for them at a crude choke point. There were two doorways at the end of the hall; one of them was blocked off by rubble. They would have no choice but to take the left door.

Blackwall locked his shield against Cassandra and the Queen’s. As a shield wall they advanced up the tunnel, the others came up behind them. Varric, the Prince, and Lady Hawke were firing arrows into the darkspawn ranks. A few of the eager ones broke into a run and broke against their shields.

Blackwall made short work of a hurlock that grabbed hold of his shield and tried to pry it away. He used the pommel of his sword to smash through its skull and left it a quivering heap on the ground.

In front of them, Genevieve had laid a fire mine. They stopped their advance and waited for the darkspawn to charge. But the beasts seemed adamant at keeping their choke point and it seemed they might have to pick them off with arrows and spells before they charged.

But a few did charge; the mines exploded in a cascade of fire. The flames seemed to enrage them and all of a sudden one of the hurlocks clicked and roared and the other darkspawn rushed them.

They broke their shield wall. Blackwall met a hurlock with his blade and smashed his shield into a genlock. A shriek slipped past him and went for Genevieve. Blackwall turned to take care of it, but she had used the spear point end of her staff to put a quick end to it. He nearly smirked; he and Cullen had shown her how to use her foe’s forward momentum and the blade end of her staff to her advantage.

But she didn’t return his grin, she shouted for him to pay attention and then flung her hand out and a bolt of lightning struck a hurlock before it could take Blackwall’s head from his shoulders. Stunned, the hurlock went ridged and gave Blackwall the chance to finish it off. It was so close a call that Genevieve came to his side. He could feel the magic humming around her. She raised her hand above her head and brought it down as a fist.

Simultaneously, several darkspawn hit the ground as a wash of green energy broke over them, driving them to their knees. Oghren rushed forward and took out three felled creatures with his ax.

“Mages are pretty damn useful!” he laughed, gleefully smashing the head of his blade into a hurlock’s chest before pulling it loose in a spray of blood.

The Queen met the last hurlock with her shield before sliding the blade of her sword up though it’s jaw. “Quickly! Before more come!” She ushered them through the left side of the hall and down another corridor.

They met no resistance now, and that struck Blackwall with fear. If they weren’t meeting them in the hall that meant they were massing somewhere, or getting ready to spring a surprise attack. Blackwall hated being blind like this, and worse—he hated relying on the Queen’s ability to sense the creatures.

Suddenly, they came to a halt. The Queen skidded on her heel, dropped her sword and shield and laid her back against a massive set of stone doors. She slammed them shut and started looking around the walls, searching through the corruption.

“There’s no mechanism!” Oghren growled. So the Queen improvised, pulled a dagger from her belt and jammed it between the handles. She leaned against the door and dropped to the floor.

“We can rest for a bit,” she muttered reaching into her pack and taking out a skin of water. Blackwall frowned and the Queen seemed to know what he wanted. “They’re massing in front of us and behind. To cut off our escape. But we’re not going that way,” she laughed weakly. “I want to keep the ones behind us from coming up on us when we fight the broodmother.”

“So you’re sure then?” Genevieve asked.

“Yes,”

Lady Hawke crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. “Uh huh; so how about you let us in on the escape plan then, _your Majesty?”_

The Queen just laughed and shook her head. “It’s in your best interest that I survive the coming battle, Princess.”

Varric cleared his throat. “You know,” he began, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know what’s going on here,” he pointed at Hawke and the Queen. “But you can bet I’m going to find out, so why don’t you save me the trouble and we all sit around and talk about it?”

“Not now, Master Tethras.” The Queen sighed. “Right now you should eat and drink.” To get her point across she bit into a strip of jerky. “They’re waiting on us; we have a chance to eat. So eat.”

Blackwall searched for a place where the corruption was cleared from the floor. He found a spot, but it was covered with the rotting bones of a dwarven skeleton. They had seen many such resting places; some with rusting armor around them, others with the last bits of flesh and hair still clinging to the brown bones. This one had had armor, but it had long ago rusted to nothing and now the bones were covered in a fine red dust. Blackwall kicked the bones away and several of them exploded into white powder.

But amid the bits of bone and dust, Blackwall spotted a silvery round object. It was a ring. He picked it up and blew the dust off it. It wasn’t silver, it was stone. There were carvings around it, the dwarven motif he’s seen carved into the walls of the thaig they had been wandering. Straight lines all intersecting each other at one point and locked together in an endless circle. He tried to rub the dirt out of the crevasses and he spotted a little bit of garnet, or maybe it was that thin red glassy stone the dwarves used like windows.

He sat down and examined it more closely. Sometimes objects, especially jewelry, were enchanted with certain properties. Genevieve knew more about enchantments than he, and he wondered if something as well carved and beautiful as this ring had an enchantment on it. It was hard to imagine what it was doing so far from civilization, so far from hope. He wondered if Genevieve would like it. Cole often brought her little trinkets like this, perhaps she would like it.

Gently, he slipped the ring into his pocket and looked over at Genevieve. She was tending to the Prince’s blistered hands again. Looking at her now, he couldn’t imagine that they would get out this hellhole. But he had to keep up his hopes. The ring, as tiny and near worthless it might be, gave him a little glimmer of faith. When she finished with injuries, she sat down beside him and they shared a bit of hard cheese and beef jerky. They couldn’t eat much though, the stink was fouler somehow. But they needed their strength.

When they finished, she looked over the wound in his arm and wrapped it with clean silk. He was more than willing to act as her pillow; she made a cushion from her cloak and laid her head against his shoulder. But they didn’t sleep. Blackwall found himself listening to the quiet conversation between the Lady Hawke and her husband. She was counting out what remained of their arrows.

“I’d feel better if you kept some with you, wife,” the Prince muttered. He had laid his hand on his knees, palms up, and was letting the blisters breath.

“You’re the better shot and I have my daggers,” Lady Hawke answered. She had separated red arrows from white and was dipping the red ones in a pot of poison. After they dried, she placed them into the Prince’s quiver and then began coating two of her daggers in the same poison.

“Here,” she held her hand out and beckoned for Genevieve. “Bring me your staff, your Worshipfulness,” Hawke looked down at the poison. “It isn’t corrosive, I promise. A friend taught it to me,”

Genevieve got up and Blackwall felt the absence of her warmth, but was quickly relieved when she sat back down after handing the staff off to Lady Hawke.

Lady Hawke used a small brush to paint the poison onto the spear head of Genevieve’s staff. “It’s concentrated nightshade, if you’re curious, with dragonthorn,”

“For potency?” Genevieve asked, herb lore always interested her.

“And a few drops of essence of henbane.” Lady Hawke smirked. “If my blade doesn’t kill you, you can be sure this will.” She passed the staff back to Genevieve and sighed. “Just something to give us an edge; every little bit helps. Isn’t that right, love?”

“Oh-aye.” The Prince looked near asleep.

But sleep would have to wait. Now that they had eaten, the Queen called them up onto their feet. Quickly checking over her rent armor, Genevieve stood up and then offered Blackwall her hand. Once up he didn’t let go. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, then each finger, and then the top. She gave him a soft smile, reassuring and delicate.

“Lead the way, your Majesty,” Genevieve said when she turned away and let go of his hand. The Queen nodded, took up her sword and directed them down the hall.

It didn’t take very long to meet their foe. More darkspawn awaited them in a wide chamber with squat dwarven paragons holding up the ceiling. Bones still clung to their old weapons, the blades too old and rusted to be of use to the darkspawn. Bits of stone debris had fallen from the ceiling and wooden benches rotten and broken lay piled in a corner.

The darkspawn had set a row of archers in the back, their swordsmen stood up front, and leading them was an ogre in thick bronze colored armor. The ogre looked directly at them and roared, spittle flying off its yellowed teeth.

“Scatter!” the Queen roared and she raised her shield and ducked under the archer’s volley. Beside him, Cassandra threw her shield up and charged alongside the Queen. But Blackwall stopped, Genevieve was not near him and he felt a panic seize him. With his shield over his head, he peered around and found Genevieve and the Prince sharing the safety of a pillar. Hawke and Varric had taken cover behind another.

Fear subsided, Blackwall charged behind Cassandra and the Queen to meet the darkspawn swordsmen. Using shoulder and shield, Blackwall rammed a hurlock into one of the pillars and crushed its head against the stone before turning and slashing at a genlock. He hamstrung the beast and threw up his shield to protect himself from another volley. Oghren came up beside him and swung his battleax into the chest of a hurlock and then into the head of another. Back to back, they fought their way to the Queen and Cassandra.

A sheet of ice came up, cutting off the archer’s field of view and giving them more cover. Blackwall cut down a ghoul and surveyed the field. Genevieve, the Prince, and Varric were keeping behind cover, but Lady Hawke had disappeared into the shadows. He saw the silvery glint of a blade as it took out a genlock from behind, and then Lady Hawke melted back into the darkness.

A column of flames flew up from the darkspawn ranks sending several flying and plummeting to the ground while others screeched as their skin sloughed off in melty patches. That seemed to push the rest of the darkspawn into a fury. The ogre roared and smashed through the wall of ice Genevieve had put between them.

Undaunted, the Queen and Oghren turned to the ogre. “ _Come on_ , your ugly son of a bitch!” the Queen roared, jabbing at the creature with her sword and bringing up her shield to protect from arrows.

A rock came shooting from behind Blackwall and took out a section of floor around three of the genlock archers. Varric shouted something and fired a succession of bolts taking out the rest of the archers with the Prince’s help.

Blackwall saw Cassandra struggling against two hurlocks. He charged, came up behind one and grabbed it by lip of its chest plate. He jammed his blade where the beast might’ve had kidneys and gave Cassandra a chance to finish off the other. Now all that remained was the ogre, a daunting challenge, even if they did outnumber it.

The Queen was still taking jabs at it while Oghren tried to cut its legs out from under it. If the ogre couldn’t dodge their attacks, it simply took them without wavering. It slammed one meaty fist into the ground, shaking the already dangerously unstable ceiling. The Queen jumped away when it swatted at her, she countered with another jab that glanced off its knuckles.

“Hit it with a fire spell!” Blackwall called when it slammed a fist down at the Queen again, this time hitting the lip of her shield and knocking her to the ground. The Queen scrambled to her feet, arm and shield hanging useless at her side. Blackwall looked over at Genevieve who shook her head. The Prince had nocked one of his red arrows and ran forward, fired, and hollered for the creature’s attention.

The arrow struck the beast in the shoulder and it roared in response and drove forward, eager to destroy the new nuisance. Strafing, the Prince took another arrow from his quiver and fired, taking the ogre in the eye and blinding its right side. Another roar and Blackwall found himself backing up towards Genevieve. He grabbed her and pushed her back behind the protection of his body and shield.

Then Varric called for the creature’s attention and bolt sprouted from the ogre’s left eye. With another bellow that shook the chamber, the ogre charged them. In blind rage the creature fell to four legs, lowered its head, and made to gallop.

Blackwall turned around and shoved Genevieve up against the wall before throwing his shield over his back and covering her with his body. “No look,” Genevieve said, placing a hand on his chest and forcing him up.

He turned just in time to see the ogre sway back and forth; Lady Hawke mounted on its shoulders. One dagger pressed hilt deep into its neck. She twirled her second blade in hand and shoved it into the other side of the ogre’s neck bringing it down in a great clash of metal and flesh.

The dust and blood settled and silence took over the cavern. Blackwall helped Genevieve to her feet. She brushed dust out of his beard and smiled. It was quite a victory, even if they were exhausted.

Lady Hawke was sitting triumphantly on her kill cleaning her daggers with a shred of cloth from the ogre’s tunic. She sheathed the blades and accepted her husband’s hand; he pulled her up and into his arms.

“Works every time,” Lady Hawke insisted.

“Still gives me a heart attack,” the Prince noted as he carefully looked his wife over for injuries. “But aye, it works.”

“You’ve done this before?” Genevieve asked.

Lady Hawke nodded, suddenly nervous. “Yes, your Worship. When we fought Corypheus the first time.”

Genevieve nodded and dropped the topic. During Lady Hawke’s stay in Skyhold, Blackwall had witnessed her apologize multiple times for Corypheus; she even tried to sacrifice herself in the Fade.

“We must keep going,” the Queen interrupted his train of thought. She looked as if their journey was finally catching up with her. The blow to her shield had bent the lip and dislocated her arm at the shoulder. Her helm had taken a dent where she’d fallen to the floor and there was a rent in her chainmail.

Genevieve sighed and handed her staff to Lady Hawke. “Blackwall, I won’t be strong enough to put her shoulder back.”

Blackwall nodded while Genevieve helped the Queen out of her armor. The Queen did not refuse a potion when offered and she braced herself against one of the stone dwarves. With the potion finished she beckoned Oghren over.

“The dwarven ale,” she grunted through her teeth. Blackwall could see the sheen of sweat on her brow. She was fighting off the pain with a stern expression. Oghren handed her a wineskin of lichen based dwarven ale. Just the smell of it was enough to send Blackwall’s stomach roiling, dwarven ale was notoriously foul. He’d tried it once in his youth and found an easier drunk in human made alcohol.

The Queen had a stronger countenance though and took a long draught before shoving the skin back at the dwarf. She coughed and said; “Okay, I’ve dealt with these before, be quick about it and let’s get on our way.”

With Genevieve’s guidance, Blackwall eased the Queen’s arm back into its socket. He hated the sound and the feel of the bones and muscle grinding together, but it was over quickly. He backed up to give the Queen some air. Her face had gone pale and she was panting with exertion.

“Let’s move,” the Queen grimaced as she tried to get up. “Do you have anything for the pain, Inquisitor?” Genevieve passed her a wad of leaves to chew and she took up her sword and shield again. “That was their last defense for the moment, they’ve gathered up ahead. But we need to keep moving, we’re too entrenched to camp.” She staggered and waved Genevieve away when she tried to help. Then, the Queen turned to Blackwall. “Ser Blackwall, you’ll need to take point, I fear my arm won’t bare my shield high enough.”

Blackwall nodded. “Aye,” Genevieve looked like she was about to protest but she closed her mouth and sighed.

With the Queen on one side and Cassandra on the other, Blackwall led them down a long hallway. It ended in a dead end where the tunnel had collapsed, but the darkspawn had chewed through the rocks giving them a passageway. Here, the corruption seemed the choke off everything, it seemed to weep from the walls and pool on the floor. Blackwall was forced to cut though a fleshy sack so they could pass and the stink that came up from it nearly turned him green.

It had grown quiet, too quiet. He couldn’t even hear their footsteps; it was as if the corruption was absorbing all sounds. Blackwall turned back to make sure they hadn’t lost anyone. Genevieve was right behind him, flanked by the Prince and his wife, while the two dwarves brought up the rear.

“Where are they?” Lady Hawke whispered after a while. They had been traveling for some time now and hadn’t spotted a single hurlock or genlock. It was like they were suddenly alone in this place and for some reason that was more terrifying than if the caves were filled to the brim with darkspawn.

“We’re coming upon their sanctuary—their nest,” the Queen winced through her pain. “This way,” she pointed to the left when they came to an intersection.

The pathway opened up into a grand chamber, the ceiling rose up into total darkness only pillars penetrated the blackness. The shells of dwarven homes surrounded them and in the distance, Blackwall spotted a grand house, the dwarven equivalent of a mansion. This thaig had no name and no people to call it home. The darkspawn had claimed it, and nested in it.

_This is what the Void smells like, this is what I have to look forward too when the Maker judges me._ The smell was fetid, fouler than an old battlefield of corpses left to rot in the sun. It clung to his mouth and his nose—he gagged. He might have gotten sick if not for what he saw next as they rounded a broken boulevard.

_“Shit,”_ Lady Hawke muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while I am making a few changes due to the DLC that has come out in the past few months, I would like to take this moment to promise that I have no intention of spoiling any of them. On that note, I should clear when I think this story is taking place; for obvious reasons its certainly before Trespasser and the Descent. In my own head, I also place it before Jaws of Hakkon. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter XXI: Cullen

_Chapter XXI - Cullen_

Grand Cleric Mavis came riding through the gates atop Ser Marbrand’s own painted gelding. The Templar was leading the reins and speaking amicably with the Grand Cleric. They were followed by a troop of Inquisition scouts and soldiers. Mavis’s Templar escort followed in after them, leading four draft horses and two mules laden with luggage and supplies.

Ser Marbrand led the gelding to a stop and then helped the Grand Cleric down and escorted her up the keep steps to where Cullen waited with Josephine and Leliana. Dorian and the rest of the Inner Circle were nowhere to be seen, they had decided to leave the Grand Cleric business to them. Cullen was grateful for it, Sera was not the kind of image they needed to put forth.

Cullen, however, was more thankful that Mother Delphine was not around. Thanks to Leliana, that crow would have no idea what was happening until it was too late.

“Welcome Grand Cleric,” Cullen smiled. Grand Cleric Mavis was in her middle years. She had the looks of a Ferelden but the accent of an Orlesian. The shadows under her eyes told of a life spent hunched over books and the crowfeet spoke of a former Sister worried about the future of her church. “Had we known you would arrive,” Cullen continued, “We would have prepared a more fitting welcome.” They had kept the pageantry to a minimum. Cullen had ensured the Pennants and Flags were clean and presentable and he had seen the courtyard cleaned. But there was to be no feast and those few nobles who milled around Skyhold had been kept in the dark.

The Grand Cleric smiled and Ser Marbrand let go of her arm and saluted. “Don’t worry, Commander—Rutherford, is it?”

“Yes, Grand Cleric,”

Mavis laughed and retook the Templar’s arm. “Ser Marbrand has told me all about you, Commander. He holds you in the highest regard.” She greeted Leliana and Josephine in turn and frowned when she didn’t catch sight of Mother Delphine. “I must say, Commander,” the Cleric said as he invited her to retire to the comfort of Josephine’s office. “We had quite a bit of trouble getting here,” Cullen tried not to look over his shoulder at Leliana and Harding.

“The roads can be perilous. The Inquisitor has outlined a plan to pave them, but for now we lack sufficient funds.” Behind them, Josephine closed the door to her office and locked it. Delphine would not be bursting in on them.

“Ah, good,” the Cleric chirped. “Yes, we lost a horse to wolves one night and then the wheels on my carriage broke the next day. If your lovely Scout Harding and Ser Marbrand hadn’t come along we might be stuck out in the woods still.”

Harding smiled and gave the Cleric a polite bow. “Her Worship is so steadfast in her faith, Grand Cleric; she would be disappointed if we left you stranded on the road.”

Josephine offered the Cleric a place to sit. She had had a few extra chairs moved into her office and a kettle of water put onto the fire for tea. Ser Marbrand hefted the kettle out of the hearth and filled a pot for tea then recused himself to the back of the room and waited patiently beside Harding.

When the Cleric was comfortably seated and given a cup of fresh tea and a scone, the dropped the façade and the Game was set in motion. Cullen kept himself out of the Cleric’s line of sight, at least temporary. He had never been comfortable with the sort of scheming required for politics. But he would do his job, for the Inquisitions sake—for the Inquisitor’s sake.

Leliana began; “Grand Cleric, we are pleased to host you here in Skyhold, but we must inform you, the Inquisitor has been called away on urgent business.”

The Cleric nodded as if she was unaware. “I had heard rumors that Inquisitor Trevelyan had taken leave of Skyhold.”

“Unfortunately,” Josephine continued. “Rumors reached us that there may be a trouble in Weisshaupt.”

Cullen swallowed, it was his turn now. “The Inquisitor is never one to send her troops where she will not; she took a group of her most trusted warriors and made for the Anderfels.”

“With the Divine and the Prince of Starkhaven in attendance?”

Leliana laughed easily. “No one here would dare tell the Divine-Elect where she can and cannot go. And the Prince offered his services as any good man would. His wife, after all, helped us to discover the plot within the Warden ranks. The Inquisitor was eager to avoid a repeat of the demon possessions that plague Adamant.”

The reminder of demon possessions hit home and the Cleric nodded. “Of course,”

Cullen wasn’t very good at cues, but the smile on Josephine face hinted that they had her. Only a few minutes into her visit and they had turned the tide.

“Ser Marbrand tells me that the Inquisitor is devoted to her church and that she sanctioned the building of a proper Chantry,”

“Yes, Grand Cleric. The Chantry of Our Lady’s Herald.” Josephine answered with a soft polite smile. “It’s near completion. In fact, we’re set to tour it in a few days. It would be an honor to show it to you; you’ll be one of the first members of the Chantry to see it.”

The Cleric nodded and Cullen took note of the brightness that came to her eyes. It was something they had all agreed on; _something to sweeten the pot,_ Leliana had said. _We offer her the prestigious chance to see the Chantry—first._

And the bait worked. “I would be honored.” She nibbled on her scone and took a sip of tea. “Let me tell you truly, Inquisition,” she set her cup down. “I came here at the behest of Revered Mother Delphine. She seems highly concerned that the Herald has been…corrupting our Divine-Elect.” She paused as if she was expecting someone to protest. But Leliana and Josephine remained silent and so Cullen kept his mouth shut by taking a bite of a poppy seed scone. 

“Ser Marbrand and I discussed the Inquisitor at length, he thinks very highly of her.”

“Ser Marbrand is charged with the Inquisitor’s protection, he knows her—perhaps more than we do.” Leliana said.

“He was a Templar when she was at the Circle at Ostwick, before the war.” The Cleric continued. “He has slaked many of my fears,” she took another sip of tea. “However, I am still concerned about the Divine-Elect. It is not appropriate for the Divine to be _gallivanting_ about the countryside—demons or no. That is the job of Templars and Inquisition soldiers.”

Josephine nodded her head. “And the Inquisitor tried to stop her,” the lie pricked Cullen’s neck. The truth was, the Inquisitor had snuck out in the middle of the night like a runaway Circle Mage—he shook his head and tried to think of a better analogy—old habits were hard to kill.

“But when it became apparent that the Divine-Elect would not be moved from her course, the Inquisitor vowed to protect her.” Josephine drained her teacup.

“I see.” The Cleric gratefully accepted another scone from Leliana. “Still, I must insist that someone see to this matter.”

“Commander Cullen has sent a unit of his finest to follow after the Inquisitor.” Leliana answered. That was half true. He had sent his men to bring the Inquisitor back and they had returned prematurely and with a group of City Elves with them.

“That is all well and good, Sister.” The Cleric daintily wiped crumbs from her lips with a cloth napkin. “But I require a summons be sent. The Inquisitor will answer it, as a good and faithful Andrastian would, or I will send Templars after her.”

Cullen took that as a threat. He looked at Leliana, who was still wearing a pleasant court smile. But Leliana’s looks were always deceiving. Underneath that cool pond, she was probably livid. Josephine tented her fingers and smiled. “Well, of course. I’m sure our men will escort the Inquisitor and the Divine-Elect back here, you need only be patient.”

The Cleric sighed. “I fear that won’t do.” She finished off her tea and folded her hands in her lap. “Now then, where is Revered Mother Delphine? She is the one who called me here, and I have not seen her since arriving.”

“Mother Delphine called you here?” Leliana asked, faking astonishment. “This is news to us,”

Cullen couldn’t tell if the Cleric was surprised, but he saw Josephine’s lip quark ever so slightly and he took that as a good sign. “Well, Grand Cleric,” Josephine smiled. “We cannot speak to Mother Delphine’s whereabouts,” they could, she was being carefully contained in the library by some of Leliana’s people. Mother Delphine loved her debates, and her baked goods. “But Mother Giselle should be in the garden, I would be honored to escort you there,” she rose and offered the Cleric her hand. “And Sister Leliana will ensure Mother Delphine hears of your arrival.”

When the Cleric and Josephine had left, Cullen, Leliana, Harding, and Marbrand stood in silence for a few moment. They waited, listening for the Cleric or for any indication that Delphine had left the library.

Harding was the first to break the silence; “Anyone else feel like we’re walking on eggshells?”

Cullen smirked. “All the time,”

Leliana stacked up the tea cups of Josephine’s desk and sighed. “So a horse was set upon by wolves?”

“Short, two-legged ones,” Harding answered with a chuckle. “I tore the buckle on its harness, we killed a pheasant for supper the night before, so I saved some of the blood. Made it look like there was quite a chase.”

“And the carriage broke?”

“There was a nasty hole in the ground; you know, positioned perfectly for the Inquisition to swoop in and offer assistance.” Harding smiled, proud of her handiwork.

“I’ll get a full report from both of you, soon, I hope.” Leliana dismissed them and turned to Cullen. “We may need to send more troops out, at least to keep up appearances.”

“And if the Cleric decides to send a messenger?” Cullen asked, they had shot down messages before. Leliana’s people were very good at recognizing messenger birds from decoys and wild ones.

“Then there will be an unfortunate, but nonfatal attack by short, two-legged wolves.” Leliana smirked but became serious yet again. They took their conversation to the war table, confident now that Delphine was still being distracted. “You’re going to have to send out more men.”

“I’ve been meaning too. But with bandits spotted in the west…”

“We also don’t want the Cleric to know they’re newly sent.”

Cullen hadn’t even thought of that. They had told her that they had sent out a troupe of soldiers, but had failed to mention (on purpose, of course) that they had returned. Getting them out of the keep unnoticed would be a task in and of itself.

“There is a tunnel,” Leliana pulled Cullen out of his thoughts.

“By chance did the Inquisitor use this tunnel?” Cullen asked, he’d been trying to pry that information out of her for months now. He was beginning to think that maybe she didn’t know and that it was all a bluff. But, it was also Leliana. If she didn’t want him to know, he wasn’t going to know.

“No, this is a different tunnel.” Leliana laughed lightly. “It leads out into the woods. It’s how I get some of my people in and out without being seen.”

“Does the Inquisitor know about it?”

“Yes, but she has never used it.” Leliana folded her hands together and smiled. “Get a unit together and I will show them the way out of the keep.”

Cullen nodded and they parted ways.

As Cullen walked back to his office he thought about how best to word his orders. This time he would make sure to tell his men not to obey _every_ order the Inquisitor gave them, written or otherwise. Also, he would send them to take a ship from Val Royeaux instead of taking the Inquisitor’s direct path. _Put into Cumberland and follow the road up to Weisshaupt_. He thought, trying to recount an exact picture of the map. He’d spent many hours bent over the map of Thedas, but was having trouble imagining it now. Was there a more direct route to Weisshaupt? Should he send simple soldiers or was it best to send Dorian and the Iron Bull?

_Too many troubles_. He felt a headache coming on. A headache and that almost undeniable thirst—sometimes the lyrium called to him like a long lost lover. The cull was getting weaker, but it was still there. Sometimes it sung sweetly to him, beckoning. And sometimes it screamed, begged him to come back. It was easier to ignore when it screamed. When it sung to him, he sometimes found his feet following after it. His feet remembered the old path he used to take from the Circle barracks to requisitions for his ration. Once a week, every Monday, at nine-o-clock. Down the stairs and around the second floor corridor. They passed it out a week at a time; it was easier to control Templars that way. If they only got a week’s worth of lyrium, it would ensure the Templars stayed close.

The Chantry had done them wrong. But deep in his heart, Cullen knew the lyrium served a purpose. There were evil mages out there and it took good and decent Templars to defeat them. _And mages now_ , he reminded himself. There were mages out there with more honor than a thousand Templars. He had seen the truth of that with his own eyes.

The Inquisitor was one such mage. He came to his office and threw himself into his desk chair. Putting his head between his knees he tried to ride out the sudden call of the lyrium. He prayed a little, but his thoughts kept running back to the Inquisitor and her mission.

_Sending men to escort her home is not the way of it_ , he sighed, took a deep breath and reached for a quill and ink. Rolling out a piece of parchment, he got to work writing out his orders.

_You are to inform the Inquisitor of the Cleric’s arrival and threat. Then you will make yourself of use to her, in whatever capacity she sees fit, it that way, ensuring the success of her mission._

He went on to explain the importance of discretion and that helping the Inquisitor was the best way to get her home. He was about to sign it when Leliana summoned him to the rookery. Quickly, he tucked the missive into his tunic; there was no chance of no one reading so long as it was on his person. 

When he arrived, Josephine greeted him. “It’s from the Inquisitor.”

Josephine and Leliana were seated at one of the tables that made of Leliana’s desk. Leliana was looking over a letter, Harding at her elbow, and Josephine watching carefully, trying to read the words from the other side of the table.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Cullen asked, taking a chair and seating himself beside Josephine.

“No.” Leliana answered. She called for a quill and parchment. Harding brought them too her and then she got up and dug around in a chest by her prayer cabinet. She pulled out a lambskin envelop and spilled out several cyphers onto the table. When she found the one she was looking for, she got back to work looking over the letter.

“Mother Giselle invited the Cleric to sup with her,” Josephine informed Cullen. “Ser Marbrand has been invited as well.”

“And Delphine?”

“Thoroughly embarrassed herself,” Josephine said this plainly, but Cullen saw a hint of glee behind her eyes. “We did well, keeping her in the dark. She fumbled over an excuse, the Cleric was not amused.”

Cullen felt a bit a smile come to his face. “Good,” he muttered.

“However,” Josephine seemed intent on spoiling his mood. “The Cleric still insists on sending someone to summon the Inquisitor.”

He hadn't expected the Cleric to abandon that notion, but he had hoped that a nice long talk with Mother Giselle and Ser Marbrand might help her to forget it, at least for a while. He didn’t want to compete with a unit of Templars and he didn’t want to sabotage them either.

“Perhaps with Ser Marbrand and Mother Giselle working a united front, they may convince her to hold off,” Cullen had to hold out for hope.

Before Josephine could answer, Leliana held up the Inquisitor’s letter. “This is code.” She showed them the letter. Cullen read a few lines and found it incredibly unhelpful. It didn’t tell them anything of worth and there was no mention of the Inquisitor’s well-being beyond the weather.

“The seal was broken when it came in. Someone read this before us.”

“But why?”

“They’re in trouble.” Leliana answered calmly. Cullen sucked in a breath and almost asked her what kind, but before he could, Leliana took the letter and began circling words and letters, sometimes peaking over at her cypher key. She scribbled down the hidden message as she went.

“Oh Ana,” Leliana sighed, her voice deep and thick with worry. “Oh Ana, _what have you done?”_

_“What?”_ Cullen demanded. “What does it say?”

Leliana ignored him and continued combing through the note. Her face twisted in a grimace and all Cullen could do was sit on the edge of his seat and worry. Beside him, Josephine was clutching her hands into fists, looking as equally as frightened as he.

Finally, Leliana looked up. “They found the Princess alive and well.” Cullen nodded, waiting for the rest on bated breath. “And Queen Ana,”

“As in the Queen of Ferelden?” Josephine asked. “As in Anastasia Therin, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden, married to King Alistair?”

“Do you know another Queen Ana?” Leliana frowned. “She’s conscripted them and is forcing them to Weisshaupt.”

“What? Why?” Cullen frowned.

“The Inquisitor didn’t give details,” Leliana crumpled the original letter and set it aflame with a nearby candle. “We need to send help.”

“Did she ask for help?”

“No. But its Ana—” Leliana jumped up, a surge of anger taking her over. “I have half a mind to bring Alistair here and—” she froze and turned back to the others. “We don’t have time to loose. Harding,” the dwarf snapped to attention. “Wake Dorian and Bull, get Cole and Sera and Ser Marbrand. Tell them to meet us in the kitchens.”

Harding nodded. “Yes, Sister, at once,”

“They’ll need all the help they can get.” Leliana explained as they made for the kitchens. “Ana will do whatever it takes to see her plans through—she is practical, but devious if need be. Whatever she plans on doing must be stopped; I’d go myself but…”

“We need you here,” Cullen continued.

Belinda, the cook, ushered them to a small kitchen table when they came in. She offered them a late supper of roast pork and sweet potatoes cooked in a gravy of sugar and cinnamon. Cullen didn’t have much of an appetite, but he ate nonetheless. Leliana didn’t touch her food; she seemed to be deep in thought.

Cullen vaguely remembered the Queen of Ferelden. He’d been blinded by pain and hate when they had crossed paths. He remembered her shield most vividly; a green laurel on a blue field. The shield had seen better days, as had the woman who wielded it. He remembered how tired she sounded; although he could hardly recall the words she’d spoken. A spiraling darkness seemed to open around him and the sounds of the kitchen staff working began to mute and twist. Screams sounded on the edge of his hearing—the howling of unholy beasts followed. His pace quickened and he felt sweat bead on his forehead.

Luckily, Dorian and Bull came down and broke him from his thoughts. The wailing receded as Dorian sat down beside him. “Harding said it was important.” Bull squeezed past them and pulled up a seat beside Dorian.

Cole and Sera arrived separately. Sera helped herself to a slice of pork off of Cullen’s plate. He sighed, pushed the plate over to her and told her to finish it for him. She did, and with gusto. Despite the fact that she had been unwilling to attend meetings, she seemed to be in better spirits than before. The Inquisitor’s departure had hurt her feelings more than Sera would admit.

Belinda brought out a raspberry tart and served it up with fresh cream and brandy. Cullen sipped his brandy, but let Cole has his piece of tart. The boy liked sweets almost as much as the Inquisitor did.

When Harding arrived with Ser Marbrand in tow, Leliana stood. There was no fear in speaking frankly while in the kitchens. Ever since an attempt on the Inquisitor’s life had been traced back to a servant, Leliana had combed through the ranks, handpicking those they could trust and removing those they couldn’t. Belinda’s kitchens were safe; no word would reach back to Delphine or the Cleric.

“We’ve gotten word from the Inquisitor.” Leliana began. “She’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Bull asked, he crossed his beefy arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

“A Grey Warden brand of trouble,” Leliana answered coolly. “Our friends are in danger; they’re being forced to Weisshaupt.”

“I thought that was where they were going?” Dorian asked, draining his brandy and then filling his cup again.

“Yes. But they found the Princess and the Queen of Ferelden.” Leliana spoke with muted agitation. “The Queen is Commander of the Grey in Ferelden and she’s pulled them into a plot of hers. The Inquisitor was unable to give details, but the message was clear. They need help.”

“And I suppose your solution is to send us?”

“Yes,” Leliana frowned. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not,” Dorian set his empty glass down. “When do we leave?”

Leliana was about to answer, but Ser Marbrand raised his hand so that he might speak. “The Cleric is adamant on sending a Templar escort. I could not dissuade her, even after hinting that the Inquisitor may find it…insulting.”

“I believe we’d all find that rather insulting,” Dorian chimed, he had changed his mind on the empty glass, raised it asked Belinda for a refill.

“Nevertheless, I volunteered to take the message myself. She seemed receptive to the plan and her Worship would not feel hunted.”

Cullen nodded, if they had to send a Templar messenger, then sending Ser Marbrand was the best way to go about it. “Good,” Cullen turned to Leliana. “We don’t have much of a navy, but one of our ships put into port in Val Royeaux. Can you send a message to their captain? Tell them to stay put?”

“Right away,”

“When do we leave?” Dorian asked, getting up from his seat and stretching. Belinda came and refilled his glass and he drained it in seconds.

“You’re leaving tonight; Ser Marbrand will meet up with you.” Cullen felt the plan formulate in his mind as he spoke. Dorian and the others would ride ahead and they would please the Cleric with a public sendoff of Ser Marbrand. “Belinda,” he called and the loyal dwarf came running back to the table, glass decanter still in hand.

“They’ll need provisions,” Cullen continued. “This is covert, please see to it yourself.”

Belinda nodded. “Right away, Commander.” “

Wait a minute,” Sera jumped up from where she had been sitting uncharacteristically quiet. “You mean we’re going now? After she left us here?”

“Yes, Sera, we should do right by our misguided Inquisitor.” Dorian chuckled.

“Piss off,” Sera growled. “She left me here, don’t she why I shouldn’t leave her there.” Cullen frowned. He hadn’t expected something like this. He would have thought Sera would be the most excited about sneaking out in the middle of the night to rescue her friends. He tried to think of a response, but Cole beat him to it.

“It’s dark,” he muttered. “The Queen has them, but she doesn’t _have_ them.”

“Oi, creepy, what you going on about?” Sera grumbled.

“She’s like the Inquisitor but older and sad. And she has them, but she’s lost them—or she never had them before. And there are no doors.” He looked up at Leliana, the Spymaster nodded, pleased.

“Get your things,” Leliana ordered. “Pack light and keep it quiet. Meet me in root cellar below the kitchens. You have an hour.” And just like that they were dismissed. Sera went, grudgingly, but she went. “Ser Marbrand, I suggest you get some rest. You too, Harding, you’ll be going as well.” They saluted and left.

Cullen looked to Josephine and Leliana. He sighed and remembered that there was one other person who had the right to know about the Inquisitor’s trouble. “I will have to speak to First Bow Drummond in the morning,”

“I’ve scheduled a tour of the Chantry in the morning,” Josephine sighed. “We’ll send off Ser Marbrand first thing—just after breakfast with the Cleric. Then we will tour the Chantry.”

“I really should speak to—”

“You’re the Inquisitor’s representative when she is not here, you will attend the tour.” Josephine repeated, a stern look on her face.

Cullen could do nothing but agree. Truthfully, he should have ridden down to the valley right now and called on the First Bow of Starkhaven, but he was tired. Sleep would serve him better, especially with the Cleric around. He needed his wits about him.

He excused himself and hurried to his quarters. But the moment he laid down his head for sleep, he couldn’t get his mind off what Cole had said. He sighed, trying to settle in for a long night of rushing thoughts and aching fears. It wouldn’t be the first time Cole’s words had left him restlessly tossing and turning into the wee hours. He knew he was never going to puzzle out their meaning, but it seemed his mind was determined to try.

Succumbing to his restless mind, he got up and decided to see his Dorian and the others off. Leliana greeted him at the door to the root cellar. Cole was standing by Leliana’s side, his twin daggers strapped to his back and an innocuous expression on his face. He wore a set of armor the Inquisitor had gifted to him and Cullen found himself wondering if someone had reminded to boy to wear armor or if had put it on knowing the Inquisitor always appreciated it when her friends used the gifts she gave them.

Cullen peered deeper into the cellar and spotted Bull, his Chargers were with him. They stood around a yawning cavern set into the back wall. Several casks and barrels had been moved to make room for them all. Krem held up a torch and peered into the blackness. He seemed impressed at the size of the tunnel and made a remark to Bull. They laughed and Bull sent his Chargers ahead of him and into the tunnel.

When Sera and Dorian finally arrived, Leliana called for their attention. “The tunnel leads out onto the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks. There is a scouting outpost nearby; you will wait there for Ser Marbrand and Scout Harding. Dorian, you’re in charge.”

_“What?”_ Sera yelled and Cullen winced. He prayed her voice didn’t carry up to the rest of the keep. He didn’t want to explain this to the Cleric.

“Well, I am the wisest.” Dorian chuckled and motioned with his staff. “Come along,” he laughed again. “The Inquisitor won’t save herself.” Despite the joke, Cullen could see the worry in his eyes. They were all worried, but hardened warriors didn’t show their true feelings.

“Good luck,” Cullen muttered as they disappeared into the tunnel, Dorian’s lighted staff leading them. “Maker preserve you,”

XXXX

When morning came, Cullen was called out of bed by a servant. It was well past dawn and despite the blackout sleep he had earned after sending their friends off, he still felt exhausted. Embarrassingly enough, he arrived late to Ser Marbrand’s send off. Delphine greeted him with a glare, but the Cleric nodded politely when entered the throne room.

Before the sendoff prayer, Ser Marbrand introduced the Cleric to Ser Brandon and Ser Brandon offered himself as her escort for the Chantry tour. Then, the Cleric intoned a prayer for safe travels and swift feet. They escorted Harding and Marbrand out to the courtyard where horses laden with provisions awaited them.

Once they had left the courtyard, Josephine ushered the Mother Giselle, the Cleric, and her attendants to the dining hall where breakfast awaited them. Mother Delphine had been invited, but with one look from the Grand Cleric, she excused herself and insisted she was previously engaged. Cullen found himself feeling better and even smiling at the thought of the Cleric’s displeasure. Their plan had worked, despite how underhanded and dishonest it was.

Breakfast was subdued. Josephine had done an excellent job planning. The food was elegant but homely in a way that suggested little time to plan, but a desire to show their best. They’d had an entire week and a half to plan and Josephine did not disappoint.

They rode down into the valley escorted by an eight man unit of Inquisition soldiers, Ser Brandon, and two of the young Templars the Grand Cleric had brought with her. Cullen was pleased to see the work-in-progress village bustling with people. Across the valley he could see the curling of campfire smoke from the Starkhaven Archer Corp and those Inquisition forces that they couldn’t jam into the barracks.

The way up the mountain zigzagged back and forth; half-finished buildings were set on all sides of the roads. Some shorn into the mountain itself and others perched precariously on the edge, their foundations held up with stone pillars and wooden beams. The Inquisition’s all-seeing-eye hung from posts along the road and Inquisition soldiers patrolled in pairs of twos and threes.

Josephine was proudly extolling the village and the Cleric listened with polite approval. Leliana came to ride beside Cullen. “I pulled my scouts from their rescue mission,” she kept her voice low.

“Why?’ Cullen asked, the Inquisition was not in the habit of leaving men behind. The dead deserved honor and a funeral pyre, the Inquisitor had always insisted they retrieve their fallen from the battlefield.

“Winter will set in soon, if their bodies haven’t been found by now, then I fear them totally lost. And now, I feel we need all the men we can get.”

Cullen had to agree. Leliana’s people were their eyes and their ears. Sometimes he felt they needed her scouts more than his soldiers. “When spring comes again I’ll send my own men out, we will bring them home for a proper burial.”

“Thank you, Cullen,” Leliana smiled and they stopped as Josephine showed off the elegant meshing of cultures that Skyhold would soon host. The long hall that would someday host a mayor and their family was nearing completion. Those Orlesian refugees from the Dales had bent their backs and helped finish up the roofing.

Toulouse, greeted Cullen with a smile and a wave. His elderly grandfather was nowhere to be seen, but that was expected. Cullen had heard that the old hedge mage had taken to the infirmary where he helped heal the injured. “Any news of our families, my lord?”

Cullen had received word, a burned village exactly where the blind grandfather had said it would be. But that was it; there had been no sign of Freemen or their missing women and children. “My men found your village,” Cullen answered, “And now they are one the hunt for those responsible for its destruction.” He had said the same thing to the lad—a week ago, although not in so many words. In truth, his men were having a hard time tracking anything; the Freemen had been thorough in their destruction. Cullen sighed; he couldn’t stand to disappoint the lad any longer. “The Inquisitor is due to return soon,” he offered. “I will bring the matter to her personally. Justice is one of her great endeavors; she will see the Freemen properly dealt with.”

The boy brightened and promised to relay the news to his Grandfather and the rest of his party. Cullen swung his horse around to follow after Josephine and the Cleric, who had since moved on. He trotted to catch up and dismounted when they arrived at the summit.

From here, as on the walls of Skyhold, you could the whole valley laid out. Cullen spotted the green tents of his men and the black and red sigil of Starkhaven. Merrill and her elves had taken to the forest, but he could see the smoke of their campfires. The river and lake were beginning to ice over, cuing autumn and reminding Cullen that their Inquisitor had been absent for nearly three months. She had been gone for longer stints before, but then she had been surrounded by her troops and better access to messenger birds.

It had been a long time since he prayed in anything but the small keep chapel. He thought he would pray in the unfinished Chantry for a time. The Inquisitor’s message had been distressing, but the Maker had seen them through tougher challenges, he was sure. Prayer would calm him.

Behind him, Josephine was showing off the nearly finished statues of the Herald and Andraste. Masons, human, elven and dwarven were still working on the Herald’s face and staff and Andraste’s armor had no detail or finish to it. The golden plaque at the Herald’s feet had been lain out just for the Cleric’s visit though.

_Here stands her Worship, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan receiving the Mark from our Lady Andraste, Bride of the Maker._

The Grand Cleric seemed rather impressed with the outside scope and scale of the Chantry and Cullen felt a bit giddy as they stepped up to the stone doors. On the right door, it showed the burning and ascendance of Andraste, on the other it showed the defeat of Corypheus, starting with the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes and ending with the Inquisitor banishing the Elder One to the void. In all depictions of the Inquisitor, Andraste stood at her side, a hand on her shoulder and the Maker’s holy light flooding upon his prophet. 

_Chosen by the Maker_. Not everyone knew the truth of the Orb and of the Mark. But they did all believe her chosen. It showed on those doors—every man woman and child in this village believed in Genevieve Trevelyan’s fate.

“It is excellent craftsmanship,” the Cleric noted. Mother Giselle nodded in agreement. Ser Brandon offered the Cleric his arm and the other Templars shored up alongside the Cleric and they were admitted inside the Chantry. Cullen ordered his men to remain outside while they toured.

The lead stone mason was a dwarf, stout and strong of limb. He greeted them with a bow and turned their attention to the finely carved pillars that held the cavernous hall up. Cullen had trouble paying attention to the stone ivy that crawled up the columns. He was too busy taking in the rest of the Chantry.

Still unfinished, there were no pews or altar. The ceiling was still being painted even as they toured; a beautiful retelling of the First Exalted March wrought in bright reds, golds, and blues. Since it was built into the mountain, there were no windows. So the walls were carved and painted with reliefs recounting the life of Andraste all the way to the center of the chamber where the altar would rest. There it depicted a golden, celestial Andraste reaching down and lifting the Inquisitor from the Fade. As Solas had painted the story of the Inquisition upon the walls of the roundtower library, so had an Orlesian painter painted the story in their fashion along the wall.

It was a wonder. A beautiful tribute to the Maker, his Bride, _and_ his Herald.

Cullen followed along with the tour, but he wasn’t listening. The Cleric had a few questions about the lighting situation and their guide launched into a detail explanation of how they planned to use glass lamps that could be lowered via mechanism…

Cullen quit listening and bowed his head to pray. He didn’t get very far when the unmistakable inkling of responsibility crept into his mind. He needed to go back down to the valley and speak with Moravan Drummond. Leliana noted his distraction and graciously excused them both. Once outside, Leliana breathed a sigh of relief.

“The Inquisitor is not going to be happy when she finds out they painted her all over the walls.” She mounted her horse and waited for Cullen. He ordered his men to stay behind and mounted up.

“She’s the one who gave the head architect and artist free reign—and on the Chantry’s dime.” Cullen laughed as they began their descent, four of the soldiers Cullen had brought followed after them, as was their duty to protect the Commander and Spymaster.

Leliana laughed. “Some will not like the liberties taken. They may see it as worship of a false idol…and a mage no doubt.” They continued in silence, and parted in the valley, Leliana back to the keep and Cullen across the river to the camps.

When he came to the Starkhaven camp, one of the posted guards greeted him. “I need to speak with First Bow Drummond,” Cullen hitched his horse to a nearby corral filled with proud and sleek Starkhaven mounts.

With the guardsman’s escort, Cullen found Moraven Drummond fletching arrows and sipping cider with the Second and Third Bow. The First tested the steel tip of an arrow on the tip of her tongue before stacking it into a barrel.

“What can I do you for, Commander?” she stood up and took her bow off the back of the camp chair she had been sitting in.

“I have news, First Bow. May I speak with you in private?” Cullen felt rather comfortable around the First Bow. She was a warrior and leader; they were cut of the same cloth. There was no need to beat around the bush when they spoke—the mutual understanding of soldiers.

They stepped away from the main camp and out towards the woods, well in sight of the guards but far away enough that no one would overhear. Drummond turned towards him and frowned. “News from my Prince?” she always cut right to the point, he appreciated it especially when surrounded by so many players of the Game.

Cullen nodded. “They have found the Princess,”

She audibly sighed. “Thank the Maker,” but she could sense there was more. “And?”

"But they’ve been delayed.” Cullen had rehearsed what he might say last night, but now he was at a loss. “It seems that they have been…coerced into continuing on to Weisshaupt.”

An eyebrow quirked, “By who?”

“The Grey Wardens.” Drummond seemed to consider this for a moment.

“And I should assume you are sending help?”

“Last night, we sent the Inquisitor’s personal entourage,” Cullen answered. He didn’t want to give too much, but he had to reassure her. “They’re the best, the Inquisitor’s own friends. They will help them, you have my word.”

The First Bow nodded. “My Prince trusts the Inquisition and so do I.” she paused. “Still, I cannot help but think that—” Cullen watched the line of her eyes look over his shoulder. “ _Fire_.” She muttered.

“What?”

“Fire!” She pointed then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Starkhaven! To ranks!”

Cullen turned and spotted the rapid clawing of red flames and black smoke. The village was on fire—the hard work of hundreds being ruined by flames. _The village is on fire_. Without waiting for the First Bow, he broke into a wild run and found his horse. Around him the Starkhaven Archer Corp was forming up ranks. Behind him, he could hear Drummond calling her soldiers to order. Cullen mounted his horse and left the Starkhaven soldiers behind.

“Inquisition!” he yelled through the camps. “ _Inquisition_ , find pails, buckets— _anything_ you can put water in!” soldiers dodged out of his way as his horse charged full speed to the village. “Mages, call water from the river—put out those fires!”

At the foot of the mountain, Cullen jumped from his horse and plunged into the smoke. Panicked villages rushed passed him on their way to safety, many carried children; others carried their most precious belongings. It was already pandemonium—there was no order, no one to guide them. People ran past him, ran into him, and tripped over each other on their way out of the fire.

_How did it spread so fast?_ He grabbed an Inquisition solider by scruff of her uniform as she passed by. “Gather all the men you can see and guide the villagers out,” he ordered. The soldier nodded and began shouting for Inquisition soldiers to come to order.

Cullen pressed forward. The smoke had turned black, thick, and oily—the flames were unnaturally bright. _This is no ordinary fire_ , he thought, but he would have to investigate later, right now people needed his help.

“Get as many people to safety as you can!” Cullen roared and coughed, the smoke and heat scorched his throat. While he was worried about the villagers, his thoughts moved to Josephine and the Cleric. They were still in the Chantry—possibly trapped. It was his duty to see them safely out, but he needed to get out of the smoke and to higher ground.

“Go that way!” Cullen shouted, pointing down the slope of the road. A group of frightened refugees were trying to save one of the buildings. “It’s not worth your lives! Follow the soldiers!”

“But my baby!”

_Damn it,_ Cullen thought and turned back to burning house. Hoping his armor would protect him; he threw his arm in front of his face and jumped through a blaze.

The roar of the fire was deafening under the half-finished roof. Cullen held his breath to keep from taking in the smoke but a wooden beam came crashing down from the ceiling and startled a gasp from him. He sucked in searing hot air and ash. Breaking into a wild cough, he nearly doubled over. But he couldn’t stop, he pressed onward.

Screwing up his courage and fighting off the urge to cough again, he drove further into the burning building. In the corner of one of the rooms he spotted a child curled up in an untouched corner.

“Here!” Cullen cried out and reached for the little boy. The child grabbed his hand and flinched. His armor had grown hot to the touch. Quickly, Cullen tore off a piece of his tunic and wrapped it around his arm. Then he picked up the boy and hurried out of the building.

Smelling the stench of burning fabric, Cullen thrust the boy into his mother’s arms. Quickly he fell to the ground and rolled, putting out the fire that had caught hold of his fur mantle. Ruined now, he tore the fur off and threw it onto the ground. The fires were still raging around and the screaming had reached a fever pitch.

A group of soldiers came running down the smoky path, their swords raised. Cullen grabbed one of the soldiers. “What is it?”

“We’re under attack commander,” the man shouted and Cullen felt panic seize his heart.

_No. No. No. Not now, Maker please, not now._ He should have followed after the soldiers, but he had to get Josephine and the Cleric to safety first. But the wind shifted and blew the smoke away from him, giving him a clear view of what they were up against.

They came down the slope of the mountain, crashing through the woods, spilling pebbles and dirt as they charged. Some were mounted on hearty ponies, but most were on foot, their spears and sword leveled with those defenders who had noticed the attack. _Venatori_. Cullen’s heart jumped into his throat and he turned—the Chantry would have to wait.

Cullen drew his sword; “Inquisition! Battle stations!” But there were hardly any defenders around to hear him. He ran back down the slope to greet the first Venatori bastard who broke thought the paltry defensive line. One swipe of his sword and the foe was disarmed, a jab and he was dead.

Another; this one he grabbed by the wrist and flung into the burning shell of a house. The roof collapsed on the man in a flood of ash and burning embers. Cullen turned around and slammed the pommel of his sword into a pointed Venatori helmet. He caught his fingers under the visor and yanked the helm off the man’s head and was surprised to the lad, Toulouse.

Toulouse struck with his hand, slamming a mailed fist into Cullen’s left cheek. The boy broke from Cullen’s grasp and grabbed his sword. Cullen parried a bow from Toulouse’s sword and threw him back, knocking the lad to the ground. Quickly, Cullen put a foot on the boy’s chest and held his sword at his throat.

“You don’t want to do that,” the boy laughed. His Orlesian accent had disappeared. “By now my father has taken your Chantry and all the hostages we need,”

“Liar!” Cullen roared, jabbing the edge of his blade against the skin of Toulouse’s neck.

“But are you willing to bet on it?” the boy laughed again. “Go on kill me; I’ll rest easy knowing how well your Inquisitor will take the news.”

“Why? We gave you shelter?” Was all Cullen could think to say. They had given them help, food, shelter, a place to rebuild…and this was how they were repaid? With a knife in the back, with their homes burning?

“And you fell for it,” the boy continued. “I suppose we did a fine job of tricking you though, those peasants had no idea what was happening until it happened.” He knocked Cullen’s sword away with his gauntlet. “Now put your sword down and sound the retreat.”

Cullen did not remove his blade. He stood still, his mind mulling over what he might do. What could he do? If this Venatori was telling the truth—then he can’t risk Josephine’s life. _But if he’s lying…_

The sudden song of lyrium began to sound in Cullen’s ears. It was so loud that it overcame any reasonable thought he had. It took root, driving an aching pain down his arms, tingling through his chest and down his legs. He dropped his arm, looked down at Toulouse—the _Venatori_ —and felt the overwhelming sense of defeat come over him. It washed out the desire for lyrium and left him empty of all but the knowledge that he had failed.  

“Pull back!” he shouted. “Inquisition! Fall back!” he turned and ran, leaving the Venatori to take the village.

The Inquisition had not tasted failure since Haven; their victories had been hard won, but they were still victories. Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone for poppy seed scones? I could totally go for one right now. I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


	22. Chapter XXII: Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

_**Chapter XXII – Blackwall** _

It… _it_ was the only word Blackwall could put to it, was set inside the ruined shell of a dwarven house, multiple tentacles wrapped around two nearby pillars, holding it up and casting a web-like shadow. With a bulbous head on nonexistent shoulders and eight grotesque breasts, stubby arms with thick, short fingers and hundreds of tentacles…the sight sent a shiver of primal fear down Blackwall’s spine.

_“Broodmother,”_ he spoke through dry lips.

It noticed them and it’s black, beady eyes fell on them. Blackwall felt his heart seize with cold dread. It had a beak with a series of serrated teeth behind it. Red raw flesh carpeted the ground around the broodmother and its tentacles moved in a swaying dance. It screamed at them, a twisted sound like a cry of pain and a snort of anger.

Behind him, Genevieve whispered; _“Andraste preserve us,”_

They were frozen to the spot, Blackwall tried to move, tried to _will_ himself to charge at it. But his feet felt rooted to the ground. He was not a coward, he’d fought many battles—monsters great and small—but nothing could have prepared him for that thing. _This_ , he nearly fell to his knees; _this is what darkspawn do to women. This is what happens to the lasses they drag down into the depths._

This was what they would do to Genevieve if he didn’t move.  

He slammed the flat of his blade against his shield and the noise shook him out of his paralysis. He might have charged then, but the Queen stopped him; she had a plan. “Inquisitor, keep the tentacles off us, Oghren, you’ll help her. Archers will cover, Ser Blackwall, Seeker, we strike the body until it dies. Lady Hawke, do what you do best.”

“For the Inquisition!” Genevieve screamed and threw up a storm of ice and freezing winds to give them cover.

“For the Grey Wardens!” The Queen and Oghren roared, charging forward.

The Broodmother roared and thrashed its tentacles around as if it was throwing a fit. Blackwall flung himself into the fray, his shield raised. He slashed at a tentacle, cutting it in half. The tentacle slipped back underground only for another to pop up again.

The ice and wind was around him, biting into his skin. But when it stripped the flesh from one of the tentacles and froze a few others, Blackwall was thankful for it. He slammed into one of the frozen tentacles and shattered it. As if the broodmother had felt the blow, it screeched and a tentacle came out of the dissipating mist and blindsided him.

Blackwall hit the ground and lost the air in his lungs. He tried to breathe and found his chest tight. The tentacle came flying up again and he raised his shield. It hit the shield with such a force that Blackwall’s head hit the stone and sent stars spreading across his vision. He expected the blow again, but it never came. Instead, Cassandra stood over him, her sword hacking through the bruise colored flesh and a geyser of blood splatted them. Blackwall clamped his mouth shut and hope the blood didn’t get into his mouth.

“Come on,” the Seeker barked and held out her hand to help him up. He took it, picked up his sword and drove it into the side of another tentacle before it could reach Cassandra.

With the storm cleared, Blackwall could see the Queen ahead of them. She was in battle against another set of tentacles, but by the cuts on the belly of the broodmother, she had gotten close enough to get some blows in. Blackwall was going to join her, but before he could, he lifted his shield to catch a darkspawn arrow before it could take Cassandra in the back.

Reinforcements had come. And they were _mad._

Genevieve had turned from the broodmother to give her attention to the darkspawn. The next spell she cast sent up a wall of flame, setting many alight and cutting off others. Blackwall started for the darkspawn, but Genevieve stopped him.

“Focus on the broodmother, Oghren and I have them!” she yelled, and then spun her staff above her head and brought it back down. Lightening lanced across the room killing or paralyzing whatever it touched.

Blackwall forced himself to look away from her and focus on the broodmother. He batted a tentacle away and saw Lady Hawke had reached the body. She jumped and jammed both daggers into the grey flesh of the broodmother. It screamed and turned away from the Queen to lock eyes with Lady Hawke. It lifted a fat tentacle and tried to strike. Lady Hawke abandoned her daggers and jumped back, dodging with well-honed speed. But she was unarmed now; she reached into her boot and pulled out a shiv. She struck one of the tentacles before summersaulting to a safe distance.

“Skylar!” The Prince yelled pulling his dagger from his belt and throwing it. It embedded into the soft flesh of a tentacle about to strike and Lady Hawke snatched it up before making a hasty retreat back into the shadows.

Blackwall fought his way to the spot where Lady Hawke had stabbed the broodmother. He managed to free one of her daggers and slid it across the floor to where he hoped she would get it. The broodmother screeched and flailed around knocking him back. He was still on his feet though and the darkspawn were coming in closer. A hurlock made ready to strike the Queen with an ancient looking ax. But Blackwall got there first, blocked the blow with his shield and gutted the beast.

Purple bolts of magic flew though the cavern and struck the broodmother in the face. Another scream enveloped Blackwall in cold horror as this time; it thrashed around and pulled down one of the pillars it had been hanging onto. The pillar came down in a wash of dust and stone and Blackwall found himself dodging rock and tentacles. His companions were yelling and the darkspawn were taunting in their strange language. He couldn’t see anything with all the dust in the air. But in this cavern all noises echoed and distorted, Blackwall couldn’t trust his sense of hearing.

A tentacle shot up from the dust and swatted him, slapping against his armor like a whip. It staggered him, but didn’t knock him off his feet. He dove at, hoping to cut it down, but it ducked back underground as if it had a mind of its own. When it reared again, Blackwall lunged for it, but his blow didn’t cut clean though, instead he mangled it and it fell limp to the ground, too useless to be returned underground.

The dust was beginning to settle now and Blackwall found Genevieve standing back to back with Cassandra. The Seeker had taken a blow to the head and blood was oozing down her forehead and into her eyes.

_“Fall back, Cassandra,”_ he thought he heard Genevieve say. But he realized through the haze and noise, that she may not have said anything and he merely longed to hear her voice.

He was going to go back them up, but another tentacle flew up from the ground. He struck, missed by centimeters, and struck again. The tentacle tried to knock him back, but he stepped out of its path and brought his blade down, severing it cleanly.

But when he turned back to find Genevieve and Cassandra, he saw a nightmare. Genevieve jabbed at one of the tentacles assailing them, Cassandra jammed her blade into one of them and the tentacle pulled back, taking the sword with it and flinging it across the room before waving back at Cassandra.

And Genevieve pushed her out of the way. A good Andrastian would give her life for her Divine. In that moment, he wished she was _not_ a good Andrastian.

The blow meant for Cassandra took Genevieve in the stomach and sent her flying. She hit the stone with an audible smack and her momentum came to rest against the side of an old stone wall. He didn’t say anything. He merely ran.

“Genevieve!” Cassandra roared, with nothing but a shield she was hard pressed to break from the tentacle’s attack.

Blackwall rushed forward, heartened when he saw Genevieve stir. She still had hold of her staff and the head was glowing as if she were going to counter an attack. He caught sight of her blue eyes, closed to slits, and she tried to pick herself up but she fell back against the stone as if she were drunk. Her body was scraped and bloody, and there was a spot of blood on the wall where her head had hit the stone.

“Hold on!” Blackwall finally bellowed. But her eyes never locked on him, not because she couldn’t hear him, but because of the hurlock coming at her…to finish its broodmother’s job.

She raised her staff to block the first blow and the hurlock broke the wood and tempered stormheart in half as if it was a dried oaken branch.

_No, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening._

The hurlock made a noise like a laugh and kicked the broken staff from her hands before raising its rusted sword and thrusting it into Genevieve belly. Blackwall didn’t see what happened next, a tentacle wrapped around his legs and pulled him down, knocking the wind out of him again and jarring his teeth.

But he heard Cassandra and he heard Varric cry out in anger. Varric ran past him, firing Bianca with such fury it was a wonder the crossbow hadn’t broken.

Unable to twist around to see what had happened, Blackwall struggled against the pull of the tentacle. He kicked and thrashed until at last it let go and he got to his feet. _She’s behind you, right behind you, alive. Fighting. And when this is over, by the Maker, you’re taking her away from this place._

Icy wrath had seized him. He slashed at any tentacle that got near and made his way to the main body of the broodmother. The sounds around him muted until it was nothing but a great mass of white noise. A hurlock approached him and he sliced the head from its shoulders. 

The Queen saw him coming and she jumped in front of him to clear his path until he lost track of her. His vision tunneled and he lifted Lady’s Grace, slashed the broodmother across her massive chest before jamming his sword hilt deep into the mass of flesh. There was little resistance to his blade and when he drew it back out broodmother’s movement had stopped.

He put his sword onto his back and only broke out his trance when Lady Hawke yelled.

“Your Worship, you stay with me, _damnit!”_

“We need to get out of here, they’re coming,” the Queen’s cool voice broke through the sounds of panic.

“She’s bleeding out for Maker’s sake—” Lady Hawke again, almost near tears. “Have you no touch of pity?”

“We will _all_ die if we stay here,”

Blackwall had to agree. Even now he could hear the screams of anger, the cackling of darkspawn rage. They had killed _their_ broodmother. But he would not leave her here. He ran to Genevieve side, he would not look at her, he would move. Moving them to a safe place—that would save her. _He had to think about what would save her._

Quickly, Blackwall ripped the silk from his arm. It wasn’t clean, but it was what they had now. He shoved it into Lady Hawke’s hands, who wrapped it around Genevieve’s side to staunch some of the bleeding. As gently as he could, Blackwall scooped her up and followed after the Queen. 

Running was all they could do now. They fled deeper into the thaig, the darkspawn nipping at their heels like rabid dogs. Blackwall felt and arrow strike his shield and a dark spell struck at them. The emissary alpha who had led the raids on the surface was now leading the chase. Its wicked spells missed them by inches. But the Prince drew an arrow from his quiver as they ran, turned and fired straight and true. The emissary would bother them no more.

“This way!” the Queen roared, leading them up a flight of stairs and up to the big manse Blackwall had seen when they entered the cavern. It was a hard climb, but Blackwall took the steps two—three at a time, all the while trying not to think about the sticky wetness of Genevieve’s lifeblood and how it was seeping under his armor and though his clothes.

When they reached the top of the steps, the Queen forced the stone doors open and ushered them through before closing it behind them. But they weren’t safe yet. The Queen led them further into the manse taking a flight of stairs down and making turns down hallways as if she knew exactly where she was going.

They came upon a long stretch of hallway. Above, the thundering of darkpsawn feet filled the long abandoned home. Here though, Blackwall noticed, the corruption had ceased. The air was still heavy with dusty, but it _felt_ better here.

The Queen stopped in the middle of a dark chamber and lit a torch, she looked over a series of levers and cogs set in the wall. “Oghren, close those doors,” she barked and the dwarf ran back down the hallway to close a set of metal doors. The Queen pulled down on one of the levers and something clicked and locked into place. Then she pulled down all the other levers and a chamber sealed when a third door of stone and iron closed and locked.

“Set her down here,” Lady Hawke barked before calling for another torch. “And I need her bag of medicines, someone find something to build a fire with—move Maker damn you! _Move!”_

Blackwall set Genevieve down on the ground and Lady Hawke removed the bag from her shoulders. Lady Hawke took a knife and sliced though the leather straps that held her ruined breastplate in place. It took more work to remove Genevieve’s chainmail and all the while she was bleeding out, a puddle of bright red blood blooming under her like those flowers she loved so much.

“Serah Blackwall, apply pressure to the wound,” Hawke barked. Blackwall did just that, using the soaked silk he’d given over to add pressure while Lady Hawke and Cassandra peeled off Genevieve’s chainmail. When that was done, Lady Hawke slit open Genevieve’s tunic and revealed the wound; a jagged open hole spilling blood onto her perfectly pale skin.

“Okay, sweetling, are you with me?” she pressed a blood stained hand to Genevieve’s forehead. “Hey, love, can you heal yourself a bit?” then Lady Hawke hovered her nose over the wound and sniffed. “I don’t think the blow hit her stomach, and she’s breathing. Oh Maker, if Anders was here—” but she stopped and pulled out a health potion and a bottle of lyrium. “When the fire gets going, someone boil some of that strongwine,”

“Got it,” Varric said grabbing the wineskin and pouring it into a pot.

Lady Hawke lifted Genevieve’s head and let her use her knees as a pillow. “I need you to drink this, sweetling.” She raised a flask of potion to Genevieve’s lips. “Shhh, I’ve got you, you’re alright.” Lady Hawke murmured when Genevieve thrashed, unsure of what was happening.

Blackwall knew he should have said something, but he couldn’t make himself speak. Instead he felt a lump in his throat and a stinging in his eyes. Lady Hawke feathered her fingers through Genevieve’s hair and made more soothing noises. Genevieve took the potion when she realized what it was and that gave him some hope. _She’s not dead_ , he told himself. _She’s not dead._

“Wine’s hot,” Varric brought over a steaming pot of wine and Hawke told him to dig through Genevieve’s bag.

While Varric dug for silk and a sowing kit, Hawke poured some of the warm strongwine over her hands and tried to clean them as best she could. The Prince took her place at Genevieve’s head while she moved to the side. Varric held up a torch for light and Cassandra sat on her other side, holding her hand as if nothing had broken their friendship but the broodmother and the hurlock. There was no modesty to be found, Genevieve’s chest was bare for all to see, but there was nothing but blood and paleness. They all watched soberly as Lady Hawke dipped a clean piece of silk into the hot wine and rung it out over the wound.

Genevieve reacted and writhed in pain, but her eyes didn’t open. The Prince laid his forehead against Genevieve’s and recited something from the Chant. Blackwall hoped that would comfort her, she had always found strength in the Chant of Light. He hoped she would cling to it, hoped she would choose the Prince’s brogue over the Maker’s summons. The Maker had called her once, had chosen her—could he not wait a little longer before he called her back again?

This was no place for Genevieve Trevelyan to die. She was supposed to outlive him. She was supposed to have children and live long after him, he wouldn’t even mind it if she remarried. He only ever wanted to make her happy. To _see_ her happy. This ruin was no place for her. Death had always been something he’d contemplated, even when she had come into his life. He would go first; he always thought. Because the thought of living without her left him bereft of purpose. What good was life if the sun stopped shining, if food tasted of ash, and the sky had turned grey? That was his world without her.

_You’re supposed to die surrounded by family—by our children._ Blackwall held one of her hands in his and he raised it to his lips. Her fingers were cold; this place was drawing the life out of her, crushing her. She needed to be out in the sunlight, surrounded by her flowers, by the song of birds and the laughter of her people. This was a cold and dead tomb, she was no child of the stone—this place was not for her.

He looked at the Queen. She was sitting near the fire, watching with unblinking eyes. _You did this._ He wanted to scream. _You did this to her!_ This was her fault—if they had killed her in the holdfast none of this would have happened and they might be safely on their way back to Skyhold now.

But his rage died when Genevieve croaked; “Lyrium,”

Hawke didn’t stop with her needle work. She was sowing up the ragged wound to the best of her ability, but Blackwall could tell that most of it would have heal on its own or be healed by magic.

“Lyrium,” she croaked again, a drop of blood oozed from the corner of her lips and her eyes had opened. But she was staring up at the ceiling, eyes dull and not truly seeing anything.

“I tolerate the moon and stars, I can't abide the sun, banish me with torch light and you'll see me turn and run. What am I?” Lady Hawke asked, the fishbone needle breaking through Genevieve’s pale skin, then a gentle tug, and she repeated the process again.

“This is not the time for riddles,” Cassandra growled, but she silenced when Lady Hawke gave her harsh glare.

Genevieve seemed to fall silent but then she wheezed out; “Darkness,”

“That was an easy one. You know what’s happened?”

“I’m bleeding out,” Genevieve rasped, Blackwall couldn’t tell if her eyes truly saw Lady Hawke, or if she had merely followed the sound of the other woman’s voice. “And you’re asking stupid questions,”

A small, amused smirk came to Lady Hawke’s lips but it disappeared in favor of a more serious look. “Sebastian, give her a few sips—not too much,”

The Prince unstopped a bottle of lyrium and gently tipped the bottle back, giving Genevieve a few small sips before pulling back. Blackwall had his trepidations with lyrium, but he would have given her anything she had asked for if only to hear her speak again.

“More,”

“No,” Hawke said sternly. “Do you think you can heal yourself—a little?” Lady Hawke guided Genevieve’s hand over to the wound and a pale blue glow washed over her fingertips. Blackwall saw no changes in the wound, but she stopped and let Cassandra take her hand again after a few moments.

When the corona of light disappeared, Genevieve gave up whatever had been keeping her conscious. She fell totally limp as if total exhaustion had taken her. But a grain of hope had taken root; she had woken long enough to heal some of the damage done to her. _She’s strong; she can make it through this._

“Let’s move her,” Hawke ordered after cleaning away blood and dirt. Blackwall gingerly slipped his arms under Genevieve and moved her closer to the warmth of the campfire. He looked back at the spot where she had been laying; the pool of blood had already begun to coagulate. _So much blood._ He tried not to look at how pale she was, at how the light rose color of her lips had receded and her eyes had sunken.

“Please,” he whispered into her hair. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Varric had rolled out Genevieve’s bedding, made a pillow from a folded up cloak and set aside their various sleeping furs. Blackwall set Genevieve down and Lady Hawke got back to work. She smeared a poultice of elfroot and spindleweed over the wounds and quickly wrapped a swath of gauze and silk around Genevieve’s torso. Then she cleaned and bound the wound on the back of Genevieve’s head and helped her take another healing draught.

After gently placing a blanket over Genevieve, Lady Hawke turned to the Hero of Ferelden. Blackwall felt the crackle of tension between them. He knew what was going to happen before it did. Lady Hawke pounced, jumped over their fire, a dagger in hand.

The Queen tried to dodge Hawke’s charge, but the rogue was faster. They tumbled to the ground, rolling until Lady Hawke sat on of the Queen’s chest, her dagger placed dangerously near the artery at the Queen’s throat.

Across the room, Oghren jumped to his feet and reached for his ax. But the Prince cut him off, an arrow imbedded in the stone just inches from his hand. “Sit down Serah Warden, I am _faster_ than you,” the Prince growled, arrow trained on the dwarf.

Cassandra and Varric jumped up, surprised and panicked. Blackwall reached for his sword, he would defend Genevieve—from anyone.

“Hawke, what the hell has gotten into you?” Varric demanded.

“It’s time for her to tell us how to get out of here,” Lady Hawke’s voice was low and menacing. Her hand was pressed onto the Queen’s hurt shoulder, and her dagger was in just the right place for a killing blow. In the gloom, Blackwall could see the vicious tautness of her muscles. It hit him then—Varric’s stories weren’t as fabricated as he’d always thought. Lady Hawke was a killer. An assassin. She kept to the shadows; she controlled every movement right up until it was time to strike.

“Spill it _your Majesty_ , I am not a very patient woman.” The edge of her blade pricked the Queen’s neck and a drop of blood oozed down her skin. When the Queen didn’t speak, Lady Hawke jammed her fist into the Queen’s shoulder eliciting a painful hiss. “The only person who might have protected you from this is over there—” she motioned with her head. “Dying. For her sake, and for yours—you _will_ tell me how to get out of this fucking hole.”

“Tell your husband to drop his bow; Oghren has nothing to do with this.” The Queen answered. Her voice was calm. She had stared down death before; Lady Hawke’s threats were nothing.

“No.” Hawke barked. “Where’s you map?”

“Princess Vael this behavior is—” Cassandra shut her mouth with a click of her teeth when Hawke looked over at her.

“Varric search the Queen’s bag for the map.”

Varric looked unsure of what he would do. He looked over at Blackwall and then down at Genevieve. Blackwall shook his head and hoped it would reassure the dwarf. “Alright,” he said and grabbed the Queen’s bag from where she left it.

“Stop!” the Queen shouted. “Don’t bother.” She growled and Varric set the bag down. “I keep it on me.”

Lady Hawke removed her hand from the Queen shoulder and reached for the straps of her chestplate. The Queen took advantage of Hawke’s momentum. She struck Lady Hawke with a lobstered steel gauntlet. Hawke did not release her knife, but she fell hard against the floor.

Blackwall saw his chance to act and he jumped up, he grabbed the Queen by the waist and kept her away from her sword. Ignoring that she was the Queen of Ferelden and the Hero of the Fifth Blight, he locked her right arm behind her back and shoved her against the wall. Behind him, Varric helped Hawke to her feet.

“Stop this madness! That’s the Hero of Ferelden, the Queen!” Cassandra roared her hand on her sword. “The Inquisitor is hurt and you’re—”

“Shut up, Cassandra!” Blackwall grunted. The Queen tried to break away and he pressed her back up against the wall.

“This is—”

“I said, shut up and listen,” Blackwall unhooked the rigging around the Queen’s shoulder and her sword dropped to the floor. Lady Hawke came up and took the blade and the Queen’s shield for good measure.

The Queen laughed. “You’d make a good Warden, Ser Blackwall. A true Warden doesn’t care who gets in his way, he does what has to be done.”

“You’ll tell us what you told the Inquisitor, _now.”_

“So she told you,”

“We try not to have secrets.” Blackwall eased back from the wall, but kept her in a tight grip. She was a formidable warrior, even without her sword she could serious injure anyone. “Tell the Divine what you told her.”

“You have the noose around us now, _your Majesty._ You may as well tell everyone.” Hawke sat down and let Varric tend to her split lip.

“Let me go.”

“Not likely,” Blackwall growled. This woman was to blame. She had threatened and lied her way down here and by doing that, had gotten Genevieve hurt. He looked over to where she was laying, motionless except for the ragged rise and fall of her chest. _If she dies,_ he swore to himself, _then Ferelden will be short a Queen._

He wanted to kill her right now. But she still knew how to get out of this place. They needed her until then. _Genevieve would not like me taking justice into my own hands_ , but what could he do? 

“Oh for Maker’s sake.” The Queen grunted. “I never intended to follow through on my threats, Ser Blackwall.”

“Threats? What threats?” the Seeker asked.

As if she were merely annoyed, the Queen sighed. “I told the Inquisitor I would conscript you all if she did comply with my demands.”

“Shit,” Varric muttered.

“And?” Hawke had gotten up and went to sit by Genevieve. She placed her hand on Genevieve’s forehead and gently cleaned away the dirt from her face.

“And I threatened to see Bethany Hawke moved to a more dangerous outpost. Yes, yes, I’m the villain—congratulations Princess you’ve defeated your enemy.”

Blackwall released her and the Prince lowered his bow. The Queen reached over her shoulder and unhooked the belt of chestplate. Her armor fell to the ground in eerie clanks and she left it sitting there in a pile on the floor. Blackwall had not seen her without her armor on, or at least a high necked tunic. The yellow and white checkered tunic she wore now was cut low, revealing her neckline and the pale scars that crisscrossed her neck and down the vee-line of her clothes.

She dropped her gauntlets and gloves onto the pile and then carefully pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to Blackwall before she unlaced the first few eyelets at the top of her tunic. She bared the place where her heart thumped in her chest. “There you are Princess, take your killing blow. Maker knows I’ve earned it.”

“Are you _crazy?”_ Warden Oghren shouted. “You’re the—”

“Go on, Princess,” the Queen interrupted. “Perhaps if you kill me my husband will be more inclined to marry a woman who can give him a son. I was never meant to live this long anyway.”

Blackwall looked over at Lady Hawke. She set down the cloth she had been using to tend Genevieve and stood up. She sighed and sheathed her dagger. “I don’t want your life. I want out of here.”

“So the Princess has lost her bloodlust?”

“Enough blood has been spilt on your account.” Hawke sighed again and let out a weak, breathy laugh; “when I heard you had defeated the Blight, I was proud. I was born to an Amell and married a Vael, but I grew up in Ferelden—it had been my home. To hear that a native Ferelden had killed the archdemon…” she trailed. “How do we get out of here?”

The Queen laced her tunic back up and asked Blackwall for the map. He handed it to her, the bloodlust drained out of him. As Lady Hawke and the Queen went to study the map, Blackwall took his spot beside Genevieve.

Genevieve’s breathing was audible and sweat beaded on her brow. But the hard lines of her face had softened and he was reminded yet again, of how very young she was. Twenty-eight—not even thirty. Gently, he smoothed her short hair back and leaned down to kiss her temple. She didn’t react to his kiss, but her lips twitched and Blackwall felt a surge of hope. That was until she grimaced and he realized she was in pain.

Despite watching her make countless potions and document hundreds of herbs, he knew nothing of plants. She had to have something for pain—a potion or leaves for chewing? But he didn’t know what it could be. Whatever pain had struck her, faded, and Genevieve returned to peace. Blackwall sighed, relieved somehow.

Cassandra sat on Genevieve’s other side. She looked Genevieve up and down before letting her eyes rest on Blackwall. “Why didn’t she say anything?” she asked softly.

“The Queen told her to keep silent,” Blackwall answered, keeping his voice low. He didn’t think there was a chance that they would wake her, but he didn’t want to risk it. Genevieve needed rest.

“She told you,”

“After I insisted, and you were not particularly friendly.” Blackwall didn’t mean to sound so bitter, but Genevieve had pushed her out of the way, she had taken a blow _meant_ for Cassandra.

Cassandra bit her lip and pulled her hand away from where she had been stroking Genevieve’s hair. She stood and looked as if she was going to leave them, but she turned at the last minutes. “Why?” she demanded. “Why would she—”

“You are her Divine.” Blackwall answered. “And no matter how angry you make her, she will always love you.”

The Seeker frowned and found a dark corner where she could pray in private.

Blackwall ate very little when Varric offered him food. He tried to rest, but in the end he woke from his shallow sleep to the sound of muted urgency. “Fever,” Lady Hawke whispered to Varric.

He wept.


	23. Chapter XXIII: The Warden-Commander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick content reminder: rated M for a reason.

**Chapter XXIII – The Warden-Commander**

She missed Alistair. 

Anastasia wasn’t sure she would ever admit such longing—but she missed him. It felt like there was a hole in her chest, but it could have been the pain in her shoulder. In fact, it was probably the pain in her shoulder. It hurt so much it was a wonder she had stayed awake as long as she had. The Princess’s assault and Ser Blackwall’s rough handling had left her lingering in pain.

Not that she hadn’t earned it.

She looked over at the Inquisitor and her friends. The Divine was lying beside her, sword in her hand—protecting her as if she expected Anastasia to get up and finish the Inquisitor off. Princess Vael sat by their dying fire, looking over the map with Master Tethras. The Prince was leaning against his wife’s shoulder, and she was doing her best not to disturb his slumber.

Ana looked away from them, the pain bloomed in her chest again when another bout of rabid shivering struck the Inquisitor. Ser Blackwall jumped up to try and sooth her. Ana tried to drown out his loving concern, his whispered affection—they reminded her too much of her husband and how they used to be.

She hadn’t always been like this. For the past few hours she had been trying to retrace the steps of her life—trying to figure out what had driven her to this. _When Howe killed your parents_ , she rubbed her temples and then at her eyes, _you gave into fear then, and you let it control you._ Fear had made her a Grey Warden, driven her to beg her future husband to take another woman’s bed, fear had made her slay a talking emissary, and fear had led her from home to the furthest reaches of the world.

How many nights had she lain awake thinking about her children? About Alistair’s children? Three times— _three times_ —the midwife had pulled dead children from her womb. The first two had been wrapped in shrouds and taken away before she could see them. But the third? She’d demanded to see the third one, despite Alistair’s tearful pleas.

She would have named the third after her mother—it had been a girl. But the girl had black and blue blotchy skin and a clawed hand where her fingers had fused together. One foot was clubbed, the other shriveled. When the Fourth Blight had ravened Thedas, there had been documentation of cattle deformities, children born with extra limbs—the Fifth Blight hadn’t lasted nearly as long and no deformities had been reported—but it had still claimed three more victims. _Three more innocent victims._

They had mounted the Archdemon’s head in one of the halls off the royal palace and she had raged at it as if it could answer for the pain it had caused her. And at the end of that final outburst she had come to the end of her tears. She would _not_ come home until she had a cure. 

_“I will name my uncle heir,”_ Alistair had yelled, desperate to keep her close to him. He was slow to anger, but when it came it was harsh and loud, and usually only when she was involved. _“We don’t have to do this to ourselves, anymore, Ana.”_ She had been sharpening her blade and overseeing the packing of her things. _“I will abdicate—we can leave Denerim and go someplace quiet—just the two of us. You don’t have to do—”_

_“Your uncle is not going to be king.”_

_“That isn’t for you to decide,”_

_“And this is Grey Warden business,”_ she’d countered, because it was the only way to stop him. _“It’s not for you to decide.”_

Quickly, Ana pressed a finger against her wounded shoulder and let the pain pull her out of her memories. She got up, desperate to be out of sight. 

There were two rooms off the main chamber where they had set up camp. One led into a dead-end hallway, bits of rotting wood and broken stone littered the floor. The other hall led to small sitting chamber where the door had collapsed, water dripped from the ruins and pooled at the center of the chamber. They had fresh water, at least.

Ana stopped before the pool of water and knelt under the weak light of a torch they had left hanging there, ensuring that anyone could find their way to the pool. The water was clear and cold; Ana cupped her hands and dipped them into the pool to splash her face. She waited for the water to settle again before gazing down at her own reflection.

There were streaks of grey in her hair. She reached up and took a grey strand between her fingers and sighed weakly. Before the Fifth Blight her hair had been soft brown, curly on the ends, and so long she had to pull it into a tight pony tail to keep it out of her eyes. Alistair had always loved her hair. And here it was, turning grey and she was only thirty-nine.

She traced the scar at her hairline and then the crowsfeet by her eyes. The old guilt—the survivors guilt—began to bubble up. She had survived the archdemon, walking away with only a scar above her eye. But with that survival, countless others had died to the Blight—her own children had been victims. Her life was built on borrowed time and Wild Witch spells, on sorrow and fear and doubt.

If she died in this cave, then it would be a fitting end for the so called _Hero of Ferelden._ She had always hated that moniker. It was nickname that fit Alistair more than it did her, just as King Alistair fit him like an old glove.

A crown had never rested easy on her head. They called her _Queen, your Majesty, your Grace,_ all the while conspiring against her. They would bring their daughters to court as if somehow their girls might entice Alistair out of her bed. But he had done that once before, and only because she had begged him. They fought more than a King and his dutiful Queen should, they had lost children, and she had left the court—but she loved him and he loved her. They had gone through too much together to be separated by anything but death.

Someone came down the hall and entered the chamber. Oghren cleared his throat and she looked up. He tossed a skin of dwarven ale at her. Despite the pain and injury, she caught it with a deft hand, popped the cork out with her teeth and took a sip.

It was bitter and acidic all at the same time. The dwarves distilled the ale from lichen and it made for foul drinking. But she didn’t care. She took another sip, and a third before her will gave out and she plugged the wineskin and cupped her hands in the pool and drank. She’d tasted it earlier and found that it wasn’t tainted, although her companions still boiled it before drinking. And even if it was tainted, it was too late for her anyway.

“You might have told me you planned on pissing everyone off,” Oghren grunted, plopped down beside her and took a swig of ale.

“I wanted to leave you out of it,” she answered, voice hoarse from the lichen ale and pain. “There’s no need to make them an enemy out of _all_ Wardens.”

“Well, we may be down one enemy—the little one is out for the count; that blow was nasty.” He shook his head and lifted the wineskin up and slurred out something about Stone and Maker and death.

Thinking about the Inquisitor made Ana’s head spin. She reached out and snatched the wineskin from Oghren’s hand and took a long pull. She came back up gasping for air, mouth and throat aflame.

“Easy,” Oghren muttered. “If you keep drinking this you’ll burn your throat out—save Hawke the trouble.”

Ana sucked down some more water and then splashed her face. She sighed and gave Oghren a glare as he gave her back a sturdy pat. “She may like me better after that,” she had never had Alistair’s wit.

Oghren was drunk enough to chuckle though; “So what do we do?” he asked, getting serious. He typically kept everything as unserious as possible, but being a husband and father had tempered some of that. He was still a raving drunk, but he had his charms. “When Inquisitor dies, Cousland, they’re going to turn on us,”

_Nothing less than what I deserve_ , she thought. “The Princess has already had her satisfaction—its Blackwall I’m worried about.”

“I can take him,”

“No.” Ana growled. “You’ll stand down,”

He rolled his eyes and she knew he was going to ignore that order. Then, silence fell upon the two old friends and Ana found her mind wandering to that fateful day when she met Alistair and trudged through the Korcari Wilds in search of darkspawn blood.

_Darkspawn blood..._ she sighed and felt ridiculous for even considering it. Those in the other chamber may even strike her down for merely suggesting it. But it might just save the Inquisitor’s life.

Carefully, she rose from where she sat at the lip of the pool. Oghren watched her for a moment and then got up to follow her. Ana came into the main chamber and looked around the scene. The Princess had risen from her place by the fire and was now tending to the Inquisitor’s wound. Her husband knelt by her side, gently holding up a light so his wife could see. Ana couldn’t see the rotten wound from here, but she could smell a slightly coppery and foul scent in the still air of the room.

_She won’t survive at this rate_. Ana went to her bag, determined to at the very least offer a little help.

Ana carried darkspawn blood wherever she went. Now, she reached into her bag and withdrew a mahogany box carved with magnificent griffons in battle against an archdemon. She set the box on the floor and opened it. She checked the contents: a silver chalice, a pouch of lyrium dust, a vial marked _Urthemiel_ , and a second vial marked _darkspawn_. These were to tools of the ritual, usually she would send a prospective Warden to fetch their own darkspawn blood, but the Inquisitor had faced enough of them.

She closed the lid and rose. Now Ana could see the yellow pallor the Inquisitor’s skin had taken on, could see the puss welling around the wound in her side. It looked inflamed, but blood poisoning had not yet taken hold. She may yet have a chance. She was strong, the taint would not kill her—but Ana could truly only hope.

Ser Blackwall was holding the Inquisitor’s hand and he looked up when Ana cleared hes throat. She nearly recoiled at the hate she found in his eyes; but she was good at keeping her expressions passive. Ana cleared her throat again and the Princess finally looked up.

“She’s dying,” Ana said—social tact had never been her strong suit. Beating around the bush was for those who feared the truth. “You should cut the stitches and clean the wound.” She didn’t want to get too close, but she took a step forward and then another when no one attacked her.

Now, she was close enough to smell the stink of a bad wound. Blood poisoning would follow, and a long painful death. She knelt and placed the silver cup on the floor. She arranged the rest of the ingredients around the chalice and sighed. “But even that might not be enough,”

The Princess looked up from her ministrations, her brow pinched tight and her lip drew into a sneer as she looked over the chalice. It was as if she could read Ana’s mind. _“You’re fucking insane.”_ She growled.

“Sky,” her husband groaned.

“Well, she’s not inaccurate, Choir-Boy,” Tethras spat, the bitterness in his tone was in stark contrast to his polite demeanor before he had known about her threats.

“If you don’t help her soon, she will die, Princess Vael.” Ana would have to plea her case, not that she expected any different. “The Joining could save her; those who survive it are stronger.”

“I agree with Hawke,” Tethras grumbled. “You are _fucking crazy,”_ then, he got up and took his crossbow from where it had been leaning up against the wall.

“Desperate times—” Ana began, but stopped. Ser Blackwall had turned his gaze away from the Inquisitor and was watching her. The red hot hate in his eyes had been replaced with cold repulsion. He was up on his feet so quickly, she had trouble reacting. But he didn’t attack her; he had picked up the silver cup and flung it across the room.

“You’ve had enough say in her death,” he snarled. “Genevieve Trevelyan will not die—not by your hand, not by your blood, not by your Maker _damned_ ritual.”

She looked up at him and saw a thousand faces. All of them jeering, demanding why she had done all the things she had done. _When you sow discord, you reap chaos._ They called her hero. But in the end…that was just a word for those willing to make the hard choices. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” they were hollow words. _No one cares what it is you intend_ , she remanded herself, _in the end it’s your actions that matter._

“We never mean for these things to happen, that doesn’t make us any less responsible.” Ser Blackwall looked downright predatory, as if he was sizing her up. If anyone was going to kill her, it would be him. And he had the right to do so. When the Inquisitor died, so would she. 

And then, thinking about Alistair, dizzy from the dwarven ale. She felt self-preservation kick in. Quickly, she returned the ingredients for the ritual back to their box and pulled out an old dagger, blackened by fire and bent slightly on the tip.

She couldn’t recall how many wounds she had cauterized with this knife, it had been with her since Ostargar—had saved her life, had saved Alistair’s. Wynn had taught her a few things about healing, she didn’t know much, but she knew enough to save a life and fight off sickness. There still wasn’t much hope for the Inquisitor, but maybe… _just maybe._

Ana thrust the blade into the hot coals and went for the Inquisitor’s bag. No one stopped her as she began rifling through, using memory to find the right herbs.

“We need to move quickly if we want to give her a fighting chance,” she growled, finding dried elfroot, spindleweed, prophet’s laurel. “I know enough about healing to give her a chance—that’s all we can give her.”

The Princess narrowed her eyes. “You think we’re going to trust—”

“You’re a poisoner, Princess. You don’t know enough about healing, but if we put our heads together, we might save her.”

Princess Vael seemed ready to glare her down, but Ana could see the cogs turning in her head. She knew Ana spoke the truth. While she waited for an answer, Ana crushed herbs with mortar and pestle.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked, finally.

“Boil more wine, reopen the wound and clean out the corruption,” the Princess hesitated. “Be quick about it, we’re going to cauterize it when you’re done…” she paused and began rifling through the store again. “Dragonthorn, I need dragonthorn.”

The Princess got to work boiling wine over the fire. When Ana found the dragonthorn she tossed it into the boiling wine and then ground some up with the elfroot mixture.

“Hold her steady,” the Princess commanded her friends. Ser Blackwall turned to watch as Ana prepared a new poultice. Ana did not watch as the Princess reopened the Inquisitor’s wound and carved out the corruption with a freshly sharpened and cleaned knife. When most of the corruption was cut away, Hawke dripped the hot wine into the wound. Fresh blood, bright red and unspoiled by infection bloomed from the open cut, the Inquisitor was shaking and groaning in sudden pain.

Ana called for Oghren to fetch some water. He brought her a cup of boiled water and dripped enough into the pestle to make a paste. Taking the mixture with her, she took the red hot dagger out of the fire and knelt beside the Inquisitor. The wound didn’t look so bad now that it was clean; but it oozed blood, if it didn’t get closed up soon then she would bleed out.

Perhaps that would be a kinder death?

_Or maybe I should end her suffering?_ Ana slapped that cold, practical thought down and pressed the blazing knife to the Inquisitor’s side. The sizzle of flesh was enough to make even the strongest constitution sick, but Ana held the knife in place and did not balk. The chamber filled with the scent of burning skin.

When Ana pulled the knife away, the skin was red with burn and already beginning to weep. But it was better than dying by infection.

“In ten minutes, put this poultice on the wound,” Ana instructed, she a flush of adrenaline flood her system. “When it’s dry, peel it off and let the wound breath.”

The princess nodded. “Will this work?”

“Pray it does, I’m out of tricks,” Ana sighed, but she looked over at the map lying on the chamber floor by the fire. “In any event, it’s all for naught if we can’t get out of here. I need to study that map—I said I would get us out of here, and I will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	24. Chapter XXIV: Cassandra

**Chapter XXIV – Cassandra**

When the Inquisitor came to, she wasn’t lucid. She asked for Derrek. It was a raspy cry and it woke Cassandra out of her thin sleep. Lady Hawke got up from where she was sitting by the fire and brought over a cup of water. Usually, Blackwall would be there to help lift Genevieve up, but he was sleeping nearby, blacked out by exhaustion. Cassandra gently reached under the Inquisitor and picked her up. 

She took a few sips of water, and then weakly called out for Derrek again.

“Her brother,” Cassandra told Lady Hawke. “He is…” she trailed, unable to say the word. Saying it felt like it might invite bad luck—that Genevieve might yet join her brother at the Maker’s side.

Lady Hawke nodded silently and helped Cassandra ease the Inquisitor back into her bed. “She should have some broth,” Hawke rose and went to fetch broth.

Cassandra sighed and found herself smoothing back Genevieve’s hair. Guilt ate at her; _this might not have happened if I had stayed put_. Sometimes, like when she got up to get water or to stretch her legs, she felt a phantom shove, as if the Inquisitor had gotten up and given her another push. Cassandra was not a woman who cried, but reliving that moment when Genevieve sacrificed herself…it was enough to nearly bring her to wretched sobs.

_It should be me lying here_ , she thought. Of course, if their situation was reversed, Cassandra knew she would have a better chance. The Inquisitor was a master with herbs and knew more about healing and surgery than the rest of her companion’s combined.

But the situation was not reversed, and it was no use dwelling on what should have happened. Although Cassandra kept wishing she was more useful. Prayer was all she could offer, or helping Lady Hawke clean or feed the Inquisitor. Still, the feeling of uselessness had sunk in and she found herself helping the others with anything she could. It was almost as if she was trying to make up for her despicable behavior.

It didn’t really matter. Blackwall still looked at them all as if each and every one of them was to blame. Cassandra felt the heat of his angry gaze more often than she would like. He was like a coiled snake, ready to strike at whoever said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Cassandra had thought he might actually kill Queen Anastasia, but whether by miracle or his own conscience, he had stayed his hand. Although Cassandra would be lying if she said she didn’t want to see the Queen punished.

Threatening the Herald of Andraste was not something that could be taken lightly. If they got out of this, there would be a trial—Cassandra would see to that.

Of course, that was _if_ they got out. Right now it wasn’t looking like that was a possibility.

“Derrek,” the Inquisitor rasped and Cassandra softly smoothed her hair.

“Hush, you’re alright,”

Lady Hawke returned with the broth and her husband helped lift the Inquisitor up. Genevieve’s eyes were swollen and puffy, but she still managed to open them slightly. Cassandra wasn’t sure she truly saw anything though.

“Derrek,” Genevieve muttered, her swollen eyes turned toward the Prince. “Derrek…I’ve had the strangest dream.”

“Hush, and eat,” the Prince cooed softly.

“They made me a hero.” The Inquisitor continued in a tense whisper. “And put me in charge of an entire army. Can you believe that? Me? In charge of an army? What a harebrained idea.” Her voice cracked and she tried to clear it, but that made her hiss in pain and she fell silent long enough for Lady Hawke to get a few spoonful’s of broth down her throat.

But she soon continued on, convinced that she had just woken from some dream. That becoming the leader of the most powerful organization in Thedas was all some fantasy cooked up in the Fade.

“And…” she swallowed a spoonful of broth. “I met the most wonderful man.” Cassandra felt her heartache when Genevieve tried to smile and all she achieved was a bloody lip as her dried, cracked lips split at the effort. “I think you’d like him, he’s a warrior type, like you.” She fell silent again, only to mumble bits of incoherent dialogue.

When she would take no more broth, Lady Hawke put it away and the Prince eased the Inquisitor back onto her pallet. “She’s still feverish,” Cassandra whispered as she placed the back of her hand on Genevieve’s forehead.

Lady Hawke gently dabbed at Genevieve’s face, wiping away dirt and sweat. “I don’t know enough about medicine to help her, I’m sorry,”

Cassandra did not respond. There was nothing anyone could do. The only person with the ability to save lives was the one dying. Lady Hawke turned away and Cassandra bowed her head to pray.

Trials seemed the most appropriate for the time, but Cassandra knew that Genevieve had always preferred the more hopeful—more joyful parts of the Chant. The Songs that promised peace at the Maker’s side, that through the blood of the faithful His will is written. She would prefer to hear them over the somber knell of Trials.

And truthfully, Cassandra wanted to hear those songs too. So she whispered those parts near Genevieve’s ear while the others slept. That was all there was to do; pray and sleep. So when she ran out of prayers, Cassandra slept.

XXXX

Varric woke her and made her eat something. They had taken to stewing their dried rations in water to make a thin soup. The rehydrated vegetables were mushy, and the jerky was chewy, but it broke up the monotony of salt pork and hard tack. The broth it made, however, was nutritious enough and so they always kept some in a separate pot where little by little, it was fed to Genevieve.

She woke with greater frequency, always delirious with pain and fever. She seemed unaware of what had happened to her, and was convinced that her life as the Inquisitor was some wild dream.

One night—or day, Cassandra had no concept of time anymore—Genevieve woke, crying out in agony. Cassandra had been sleeping next to her and she jumped at the terrible sound, reached over, and did the only thing she could think to do. She pulled the Inquisitor into her arms and cradled her. Genevieve met her embrace and Cassandra felt the wetness of tears soak into her tunic.

“I’m right here,” was all she could think to say. Cassandra did not wear her heart on her sleeve. She was not outwardly sentimental, but she could not let her friend cry in pain and not offer even what little comfort she could. Genevieve’s skin was burning hot to the touch and a thick layer of sweat and dirt covered her brow.

“…Cassandra?” upon hearing her name, Cassandra nearly crushed Genevieve to her chest. Blackwall rose from where he had been absent-mindedly fiddling with some trinket. He came to kneel beside them and his hand fell onto Genevieve’s back.

“I’ve got you,” Cassandra whispered. “Blackwall is here too, and Varric,” she added when the dwarf got up and came to stand with them.

Lady Hawke was sleeping beside her husband, so Varric went and filled a cup with broth and another with water. Cassandra transferred Genevieve to Blackwall’s arms and she settled against him; she looked more comfortable in his embrace, but she still wore a grimace of pain though. Cassandra wasn’t sure how lucid she would remain, so she hurriedly offered her water and food—anything to keep her strength up.

Genevieve took water and allowed Cassandra to spoon broth into her mouth. After a few swallows of broth, she refused more, claiming it hurt.

“Can you help us, Inquisitor?” Varric asked softly, holding up a jar of elfroot. “We don’t know what herbs to give you for pain or fever.”

The Inquisitor looked momentarily puzzled, as if she had been asked something far more complicated. She looked down at her weakened fingers and seemed to be ticking ingredients off; “elfroot…” she whispered. “Vandal…aria with tincture of….” She muttered, pulled the blanket back and noticed the weeping blisters and red-raw burn. “No wonder it’s so hot. Who did this?”

“The Queen,” Cassandra answered and lifted another spoon of broth to Genevieve’s lips.

“Barbaric.” She whispered with the trace of a smile. “I would have…” it was garbled from there, as if she was giving voice to the rush of fevered thoughts in her head.

“Come back to us,” Blackwall muttered, smoothing her hair and pressing kisses to her temple. “Came back, little bird. We need you to tell us what we can give you for your pain.”

She snapped back to them; “elfroot—elfroot is always the base,” she started, her lips quavered. “And you should stew it with…in a pot with…spindleweed? No. No. Embrium and arbor blessing and willow bark with…didn’t I brew some? There should be some in my bag.”

Cassandra shook her head. Many of the glass flasks had broken in the battle, and the others were unmarked. They hadn’t been willing to risk making her condition worse with a potion they didn’t recognize. Healing potions and lyrium was all that was left.

“Ghoul’s beard for potency—not too much,” she muttered something about side effects, but when asked what she had said she frowned and looked as if their conversation hadn’t happened. She grimaced then grit her teeth as a spasm of pain washed over her. “I want my last rites,”

Cassandra almost laughed. She didn’t know how else to respond. But she stopped, bit her lip and shook her head. “Last rites are for the dead,” she answered.

“And the dying,” the Inquisitor spoke with seriousness, and Cassandra was forced to realize that she was _not joking_.

“You’re not going to die, Genevieve,” Blackwall whispered.

“You told me you would never lie to me again,” she responded and Blackwall recoiled, as if her words cut him. Cassandra felt an aching tug in her chest as he pressed his face into the crook of the Inquisitor’s neck.

“You can’t, remember? You made me a promise.” He muttered, his voice broken. Cassandra felt the burning itch of tears as she watched Blackwall reach into the pocket of his tunic and withdraw a small, dull ring. “I found this in the Roads, it’s not perfect, it’s not beautiful—not like you—but,” Cassandra turned away as he took Genevieve’s hand and slipped the ring on her finger.

Cassandra jumped up and set the half empty bowl of broth by the fire. Varric was rifling through the Inquisitor’s bag and taking out various jars and pouches of herbs. “I can’t tell any of these apart,” he muttered, holding out a jar to Cassandra. “Why doesn’t she mark them?” She didn’t have an answer for him.

After fetching more water from the little pool off the chamber, Cassandra set it to boil in a pot and went to take her spot by the Inquisitor’s bed. Blackwall was still holding Genevieve; Cassandra couldn’t understand what he was whispering to her, but she knew it was sweet things. The kind of whispered words shared between lovers—after a while though, Blackwall was silent, and Genevieve was watching Cassandra through half-opened, swollen eyes.

“I still want my rites,” Genevieve murmured, her chest heaved and she shuddered with apparent pain.

“You’re not going to die,” Blackwall intoned. It was like a prayer; Cassandra wished for a way to reassure him. They had their differences, she didn’t trust him the way she once had, but they had loyalty in common, and in the end _that_ was enough. “You’re not going to die.”

“Cassandra—Most Holy,” Genevieve paled and her eyes began to close. “Please… sing the rites for me, don’t leave me to wander the Fade…they know I’m dying—I’m weak.”

Cassandra knew every word of the rites; she knew the words for the dead and dying. But as she looked her friend in the eye, the words left her. She could not sing the words and therefore could not render Last Rites. And even if she could remember the words again, she wasn’t sure she would say them anyway.

Their Inquisitor—stubborn and noble and courageous, pigheaded, reckless, young and full of life—could not die. The Maker had not taken her at the Temple, why would he take her now? And in this dreadful place?

“I will not,” Cassandra said, with force.

This was met with cold, bitter, and painful laughter. “ _Oh_ , only you Cassandra—only you could be so audacious as to deny to someone their Last Rites over a _disagreement.”_ She coughed and tried to pull herself up from Blackwall’s grasp. He stopped her, but only because she was too weak to fight him. “You’d reject the Maker himself if he disagreed with you.”

“That is—” but words failed; in a way, Cassandra knew she deserved them.

“I ask for my friend to give me peace before death and you—”

“Hush, love,” Blackwall tugged Genevieve to his chest and tried to soothe her. “You’re not going to die, little bird.”

Genevieve laughed again and then seized in agony. By now, the others were waking; Lady Hawke and the Prince rose up suddenly, as if fearing an attack, while the Queen peaked up slowly from her bed, and then settled down again as if all were perfectly normal. Lady Hawke jumped up and started helping Varric with the potion.

The Inquisitor clutched at her side and the Prince jogged over to help Blackwall. She was crying, and fighting them—weakly, but still fighting.

“She’s burning up,” the Prince said. He waved his hand in front of her face and with Blackwall’s assistance checked her eyes. “Sky, she’s delirious,” Genevieve’s wailing hit Cassandra square in the chest, she clenched her teeth and felt the sting of fresh tears.

“How long does that potion have to brew?” Blackwall demanded. He was crying, Cassandra noted.

“She didn’t say,” Varric growled, his face was red with embarrassment, or frustration.

“You got her to speak?” Lady Hawke asked. “Will this help her?”

Cassandra failed to hear the rest. She could only focus on what Genevieve was babbling. That they were supposed to be friends, that she loved her. _How could you? Would you deny anyone else their rites?_ The rest was garbled nonsense, the ramblings of a fevered, tired mind. Cassandra found herself up on her feet and backing away, and feeling a coward for doing it.

The chamber was too crowded, to constrictive. She wandered down the hall to the pool and leaned against the wall. The sounds from the chamber were muffled in the cold dark of the pool; she tried to focus on the _drip drip drip_ of the water, as if filtered through the collapsed tunnel and too their little supply.

_What is wrong with me?_ She asked herself. She was supposed to be Divine, how could she fail so miserably? Her own friend had begged her for comfort and she had denied it. What did it matter? Why couldn’t she find the words she had so lovingly memorized? She had spent years memorizing the Chant of Light in its entirety; and yet she had failed here. _Failed her._

It had always been her failure.

Cassandra sat down and pulled her knees up to her chest like she had when she was a little girl. She never should have come; if she had stayed put she would never have dragged Genevieve into a fight, she would never have caused her so much strife over the Queen’s betrayal, she would never have made Genevieve save her from a death that should have been hers.

_Maker, I should be the one writhing on the floor, the one begging for my death dirge._

She could not stand this feeling of helplessness. Cassandra let it consume her, let the guilt have her for a time. Darkness swam across her vision; she was exhausted, just like the others. Sleep would not come though, not with the Inquisitor’s cries of pain still clamoring in her ears. 

Cassandra continued to sit in the dark and grieve. Genevieve’s wounds were not something that could be fought with shield and sword, but it was an enemy nonetheless. And Cassandra would always aide the Inquisitor against her enemies—she just needed to think—needed to try and remember. How many times had she watched the Inquisitor brew some potion or tonic? How many times had she daydreamed while Genevieve explained one of the many properties of elfroot or spindleweed or…lyrium?

_She is a mage_ , Cassandra nearly kicked herself. A battle plan began to form in her head. _If we can wake her again, find her alert…maybe she can heal herself? But she’ll need more strength, strength that is zapped away by fever with every moment._ Genevieve had healed herself a little when they first came into the chamber. But she hadn’t yet suffered under the yoke of sickness then. _The fever is taking everything she has…and every time she falls unconscious she enters the Fade._

“The Veil is thin here,” she whispered. The Inquisitor had said it herself, multiple times. The Deep Roads had perhaps seen more death than any place in Thedas. 

Quickly, she got up and hurried into the main chamber. She had lost track of time in her grief and only noticed that the Inquisitor’s pained wails had ended. She was sleeping, far more peacefully than usual, with Blackwall beside her.

“She took the potion,” Varric informed when Cassandra went over to Genevieve’s bags and began riffling through them. She moved with the careful precision of a Seeker on a mission. “Must be part sleeping draught, it put her out pretty quick,”

Cassandra acknowledged him with a grunt. “Lyrium,”she added. “Where is it?”

Varric scratched his head. She caught sight of the shadows under his eyes and how his lips looked cracked and dry. He had been blaming himself just as much as the rest of them. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the Inquisitor is a mage, and she needs as much help as we can give her. The lyrium will help.”

“Mages react differently to that shit, you know,” Varric grumbled. “She’s not like a Templar.”

“I know, Varric,” Cassandra finally found a bottle of blue, glowing lyrium. As a Seeker, Cassandra was well acquainted with the side effects of lyrium. While Templars often faced forgetfulness and paranoia after prolonged use, mages could be…changed. Some mutated after a time, but most fell into mana imbalance. If Cassandra was wrong, she knew there was a chance she might do more harm than good. But they didn’t have much else to loose.

She uncorked it and went to kneel by the Inquisitor.

Lady Hawke had finally taken notice of what was happening. She made to stop Cassandra, but she was faster, and dodged. “It will help, I swear.” Cassandra said.

Blackwall sat up and made to shield the Inquisitor with his body. “It _will_ help,” Cassandra insisted. “She’s weak, she needs something to give her a boost—when she wakes, Blackwall, she may have enough power to heal her wound.” The burn hadn’t looked so good when last Cassandra had seen it.

He relented then, and even helped her lift the Inquisitor up enough to pour it, sip by sip, into her mouth. Cassandra pinched Genevieve’s nose, forcing her body to swallow in order to get air. But after a few sips, it was like she knew what it was and what it was doing. She didn’t wake, or rather, didn’t open her eyes, but she took the whole bottle.

By her account, within a few hours, Cassandra touched the Inquisitor’s forehead and found it warmer than ever. _I’ve killed her_ , and she whispered the rites for the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading; if you haven't read Two-Hundred Roses, I highly recommend it; it covers Genevieve's torrid history with lyrium in a bit more detail.


	25. Chapter XXV: The Inquisitor

_**Chapter XXV – The Inquisitor** _

It was the Fade, but it was familiar. She was lying in a bed of grass, orange poppies and snap dragons tickled her nose. It was just like the garden under her window back at home. Not Skyhold, or the Circle, but the Trevelyan’s ancestral home in Ostwick. The last time she had laid in this spot, she had been…what…six? Seven, maybe?

Genevieve took a deep breath and could smell the scent of supper cooking and the honeyed fragrance of flowers. She felt a little homesick; but in the end _this wasn’t home._ This was a memory echoing in the Fade, and besides, Skyhold was home now. She missed her bed and its silken sheets, hot water brought up for her bath, a glass of wine at a moment’s notice... perhaps she was spoiled? Now sitting in the grass didn’t seem like such a nice thing and she didn’t want to ruin her dress. It was the blue one, the one that Blackwall liked.

She sat up and discovered that she was not alone. Standing on a staircase, attached to an incomplete castle wall, was her brother. Well, not actually Derrek—he was at the Maker’s side.

“Lazing about, sister?” Derrek asked. He was wearing a burgundy and gold tunic, the flaming sword of the Templar Order was emblazoned across his chest. He looked just as she remembered him; father’s square chin, mother’s blue eyes. There was no mistaking them for anything other than siblings.

“Maker knows I’ve earned it,” she answered, more to herself than him. Derrek came down the steps and sat down on the grass with her. He took her hand and kissed her knuckle, gently; she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“You’ve changed,” he said, looking over her left hand and tracing the glowing green edges of the anchor.

She knew it wasn’t him, but she wanted it to be him. With a soft smile, she answered. “Yes, for the better in some ways,” then added. “Worse in others,”

Derrek nodded and gave a lock of her hair a playful tug. “Remember when you used to grow this long?”

Genevieve felt a soft giggle rise in her chest. “Yes,”

“I remember when you were practicing fire spells with Enchanter Avis,” he started laughing. “Scared me half to death when Marbrand told me you’d set yourself on fire. I thought you’d been hurt.”

“You came running; left your post.”

Derrek laughed again. “The Captain gave me night watch hours for a week, but it was worth it to see you red faced with embarrassment, smoke clinging about your head.”

“Argh, the smell was the worst.” Genevieve chuckled. It was nice to talk to him again. With the Temple of Scared Ashes and the Inquisition she hadn’t had much time to think about him. Her grief had been stalled, but now she felt to true weight of his loss. The tears wouldn’t come, but she felt the pangs of true sadness—unaltered grief took hold of her.

She tackled him, put her arms around him and held him. He was surprised at first, but he wrapped his arms around her tolerated her influx of emotion.

“I know you’re not him,” she whispered. “I know you’re not Derrek, but Maker forgive me, I should have—I…I’m _so_ sorry Derrek, I should have gone back to get you,”

“I told you not to look back, you did what I told you,” he explained. He smoothed her hair and she let him go.

“I wanted to go back, I wanted to help you—Ser Marbrand, he—”

“Protected you, that’s what Templars are for.” Derrek held her at arm’s length and examined her. “I told you to keep going, because it was dangerous.”

“I know,” Genevieve whispered. “I know,” She got to her feet and brushed grass from her dress. “What kind of spirit are you?”

“You have so much faith in the people you love, Genevieve Trevelyan.” The voice was still Derrek’s, but his features were disappearing. “I am Faith,”

Genevieve smiled, “I am very glad you’re not a demon,”

With blinding light, the spirit shed the rest of its human disguise. “They are circling, and have been for some time,”

She nodded. “I got hurt on the other side. There’s blood in the water,” Despite knowing that on the other side of the Veil she was near death, she felt better, empowered, almost. Still, she wasn’t feeling lucky; part of her hoped—at little—that this was to be her journey through the Fade. That maybe at the end there would be a door, and that the Maker might welcome her to his side when she was done here.

The other, larger, _louder_ part, wasn’t ready to go at all.

“What do I do?” She asked the spirit.

“Come with me,” it said, and then Faith was gone. But after a moment, a path opened through the green colored dimness. Genevieve followed after the spirit. The Fade reflected the waking world in twisted fragments. She was still in the Deep Roads, and the Fade told her that, but the Spirit had taken places and things from her memories.

Genevieve came around a corner and stopped at the feet of a marble Andraste. The Bride held a bowl of fire aloft; words of the Chant echoed back to her. _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, She should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._ There was safety in her faith, certainty.

Ser Marbrand stepped out from behind the statue. He smiled, reached out and took her hand in his. He raised it to his lips; “It’s good to see you, your Worship,” like any proper knight, he offered her his arm and tucked her hand into his elbow.

“The world brightens when you’re around, Ser.” Genevieve chuckled. He was one of her dearest friends; even as a spirit’s likeness in the Fade, he was a welcome sight. “I have missed you,” she added, quietly.

Ser Marbrand smiled and guided her down her path that, while it still had the look of the Deep Roads, had elements of the Circle in Ostwick—her second home. They climbed a staircase where stones lifted up and floated away as soon as their feet left the steps.

The staircase opened up into a circular hallway, the brass lanterns that adorned the hallways of the Circle at Ostwick flickered the green light of the Fade. It was not right, it was topsy-turvy, but it still put the ache of familiarity in Genevieve’s heart. Her time in the Circle had not always been wonderful; the Templars at Ostwick had never been as bad as those in other Circles, but where there were Templars and Mages there was resentment and distrust. She had been lucky, as the daughter of a noble house most Templars and Enchanters had been _gentler_ with her than with the common born mages, and she had been lucky enough to make friends with Ser Marbrand, who had protected her from her own naivety. Then her brother came along, and that made the other mages resent her all the more.

With few friends she had retreated to her plants and her potions and her faith. The Tranquil had helped her with the plants and potions. No one could argue that Genevieve Trevelyan didn’t make the best damn healing tonics in all of Thedas. She’d spent two years perfecting her formula, and at the age of twenty-five the First Enchanter raised her to the rank of Enchanter and she got her own little group of apprentices to go with it.

She hadn’t been able to save them either, just like her brother. One had turned to blood magic, two had been her sacrifices, and the other three had died at the Conclave.

Marbrand took her up a few more steps and then to an ominous door. Ominous because she remembered it and what it lead to. _The Harrowing Chamber._

“Why are we here?” She asked, and found herself taking a step back. She had faced her demon; she had earned the right to call herself a mage. There was no need to go back in _there._

“You have to find Fear,” Marbrand answered. “And kill it,”

Genevieve frowned, “Any chance you might be able to help?”

Ser Marbrand shook his head and scratched his neatly trimmed goatee. “There are others too,”

“Of course there are.” She grumbled and steeled herself, as she had so many times before. War had a way of changing you, she wasn’t sure there was very much that could truly surprise her now. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid.

“Bravery isn’t the absence of fear,” Ser Marband intoned, “It’s the idea that some things are more important than it. He says that to you whenever you are frightened,”

Genevieve smiled. The Spirit of Faith had rooted around in her memories, looking for ways to assure her. _I shouldn’t let it_ , she told herself, _it goes against what the Circle taught me_ , but Cole had changed her outlook on spirits. He was more human now, but he still clung to his spirit mystic. She had had enough interactions with good spirits to prove to herself that she knew how to tell the good from the bad.

“Yes,” she told the spirit.

“Then you will do what you have to do?” it asked.

“Yes.” She took a deep breath and pushed opened the door. It was not the Harrowing Chamber she found within, it was her dormitory room—the one she had shared with a dozen other girls back when she was a new apprentice. She could hear the roar of thunder, but the lightning flash never came.

As a child she had feared the thunder and lightning more than anything. Her brother…Fredrick, the heir to the Ostwick throne, had started a fight with her. She couldn’t even remember what they had argued over, probably something foolish and petty (she being eight and him being fifteen), but during the course of the argument, she had struck a nearby chair with lightning. Her own power had become the greatest source of fear. From that day forward, she had thought each storm her fault…

Then, Ser Marbrand came along and showed her to the Tranquil who ran the garden. In the garden she had learned the wonders of magic, that it had good uses: healing a sick plant, encouraging flowers to bloom. She learned to control her powers and grew up. Now she was Inquisitor and everyone in all of Thedas knew her name.

With a brave sigh, she stepped out of the dorm room. She had a demon to kill.

The hallway was dank and filthy, above Genevieve’s head the ceiling was floating away, the brass lamps going with it. With darkness closing in around her, she called forth a spell wisp and lit the path before her. This demon was not interested in trickery. _It’s a fear demon_ , Genevieve reminded herself. And that became more and more apparent as she approached the demon’s lair. It was trying to scare her; there were corpses in dark corners, bones to trip over, and blood she slipped in twice.

_I’m going to ruin my dress_ , then she smirked, _other things to worry about right now, Genevieve._ And then from the corner of her eye, she spotted the first fearling—a spider, ugly and corrupted.

She struck first. The hall flashed bright with orange fire. The fearling seemed to screech before it fell over, its legs curling up and crisping. It disappeared, but not before she felt a creeping dread spread through her. Heavy thoughts found her—Skyhold burning, the Fade swallowing the world, Corypheus standing over her, ready to finish her off once and for all.

But she had beaten him, he was dead. She was alive—for now—and the Breach had been closed once and for all. Shaking off the fear, she pressed forward.

The next fearling jumped from the shadows, its weight was enough to knock her down. But Cullen and Blackwall had trained her well enough. She forced the spider off with a well-placed punch and then struck it with lightning. The spider exploded into a mass of blackened viscera before disappearing.

This time, the fear came quickly—like a mass of grabbing, scraping claws. Screeches and roaring and grasping fingers. Darkspawn with eyes the color of blood. They moved together like one giant creature, screaming and tearing, bleating and greedy. Genevieve felt frozen as the memory of pain and fear gripped her. A blade, dull from lack of care, but still sharp enough to kill, was digging into her side, reminding her; _you are mortal. You will die._

_O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death Make me one within Your glory And let the world once more see Your favor For You are the fire at the heart of the world And comfort is only Yours to give_ , she chanted in her head, and then outloud. She had killed countless darkspawn before. Death held no place in her fears, for there was peace in the Maker’s Benediction, and if it was her time, she would not deny her Creator. She would go, but right now she had a demon to kill. She went forward.

The fearlings came en masse next time. Six of them, their thin legs carrying their bulbous bodies with ease. Genevieve struck before they could get too close. Lightning spread through them stopping the spiders dead in their tracks and giving her enough time to lay a fire trap.

The first spider to trigger the trap exploded into a gout of flame. The others followed suit despite the fate of the first spider. Genevieve took a step back and threw down another fire trap to finish off the rest.

As the fearlings died and dissipated, another wave of fresh terror came upon Genevieve. This time it struck her like a wall, hard and cold like Skyhold’s stones. Her friend’s voices echoed around her; demanding to understand her choices, questioning her ability, shouting down ideas— “If you’re trying to cast doubt, you’re going to have to try harder than that!” Genevieve charged forward, determined to find the demon in his lair.

With and echoing laugh, the demon answered back. “So brave,” it taunted, “But I have had ample time to study your fears. I know what nightmares clutch you as you sleep and haunt you when you wake.”

Genevieve continued down the hall and found herself in a round chamber. There was no ceiling, only green Fade above, and the twisted spires of the Black City. Despite the open roof, the room was shadowed. Even one of Genevieve’s wisps couldn’t pierce the dark.

“For example,” the demon spoke and its voice echoed around her. She couldn’t tell where it was, or if it was even in the room. “If I wear his skin…”

And Blackwall stepped out of the dark; but it wasn’t the man she loved. He was sinister; his eyes hard and black like a beetle’s. But the voice was almost perfect, and the way he moved might trick her if she didn’t know better.

“Deep down you fear me,” he growled. “Have I told you everything? Or am I still lying?” Blackwall laughed and circled her as if she was a cornered beast. “You’re so young, so in love—so _easy_ to fool.”

“I’m shaking in my boots, demon,”

That displeased the creature; it reached forth and struck her. “When I lay you down, I think of how easy it’s been…I killed innocent people, I left you, but your so damn desperate you still roll over and spread your legs every time—and all it takes in the right word, the right touch, it might be sad, if I didn’t like it so much,”

“You forget,” she was shaken, but would not be moved. Blackwall had never struck her; he might cut off his own hands before he did. He was a lot of things, but he was not that kind of man. “The real Blackwall was ready to die for what he did. You’re a pale imitation—hardly worth my time.”

“Bitch,” the demon screeched.

“I imagine you’re more adept at scaring children in their beds.”

If it planned on attack, it never followed through. Instead the demon retreated back to the darkness and came forward again.

“I should have killed you at the Conclave,” Cassandra stepped out of the dark, sword in hand. “It would have stopped you from this folly, from all of it!”

Cassandra’s words bit harder. It was easy to remember who Blackwall was, easier to remember where _they_ stood. But with Cassandra, she wasn’t sure if they were even still friends. And Cassandra words in the Holdfast, about wishing she hadn’t been made Inquisitor…those words still stung like an open wound.

“I’ve never seen such an open display of incompetence—and I’ve interrogated Varric,” Cassandra drew her sword; a Seeker’s blade of solid steal and silverite with the all-seeing-eye on the pommel. “I supposed this is what I get for putting my trust in an untested mage,” she stepped back into the dark, but she was circling like a wolf. “Murdered the Divine, my lover—left the Templar Order to die so that you might save _your rebellious kind._ I should have put you down, I should have never have let you rise to power. When history looks upon this, they will mark my foolishness as the beginning of the end; we may as well ask to join the Imperium and save them the trouble of invading,”

Genevieve looked down at the mark on her hand. She had to remind herself that there was a reason why Cassandra had left her alive—there was a reason all this had happened.

“Enough,” she growled. Genevieve felt the sword slice through the air before she saw it. The natural inclination was to duck, but she fought it and jumped backwards, tripping over the hem of her dress.

Cassandra’s sword stuck sparks on the stone, she looked up with eyes red and features distorted. Genevieve reached forward and attacked with fire. Cassandra screamed, the flames wrapped around her like a blanket. She dropped her sword and the screams heightened as her skin melted off.

“How could you? How could you? After I let you live?” Cassandra’s voice distorted, changing from high pitched wail to demonic roar. The demon retreated back into the shadows. Genevieve’s fires died and the room fell back into shadows.

Then, suddenly, lights flared up casting a green glow around the room. Yet the light didn’t penetrate the darkness. Genevieve got to her feet and turned around, looking for any sign of the fear demon. Instead, she was treated to a shadow puppet show; Cullen and Josephine talked in hushed whispers.

“Mages should be caged, not leading us! Are we mad?” Cullen’s shadow demanded.

“We pick up every spare Templar was can, Commander—she is young, easily controlled. The perfect Inquisitor,”

“That doesn’t make her any less susceptible to possession. We have let a dragon into our midst,”

_Cullen hardly thinks of me as a dragon_ , Genevieve raised her hand, ready to summon another burst of flame. But the shadows disappeared before she could attack.

“You come to me as my friends,” Genevieve taunted; she had to make it show its hand. “Perhaps you should try a lightning storm; I feared those as a child…or maybe as a phylactery—that thing always put a little of the Maker’s fear in me.”

“Do not mock me,” the demon roared, “I know your fears—I know what haunts your waking and dreaming, I am your—”

“I lay dying on the other side, I am not afraid of you, or your silly games.” With death so close, her perspective was different. Her fight with Cassandra was nonsense. It should never have happened.

“I will take you,” the demon crooned. “I will take you and kill all those you love—”

“They have dealt with their fair share of demons and abominations, I will be no different.” _Reason is how you defeat fear. Well,_ Genevieve thought as she tried to track every movement if shadow, every shift in the dark, _reason and a well-placed fireball._

Closing her eyes and channeling her strength, she laid a series of fire mines around the perimeter of the tower and waited. It only took a few seconds for the first mine to go off; Genevieve turned and followed the explosion. The fear demon screamed, its spider-like limbs flailing. An arc of spirit bolts followed next, each of them striking their mark and sending Fear tumbling. 

_They’re not so scary when they look like monsters_ ; Genevieve smirked and finished the demon with a smattering of lightning.

As soon as the demon dissipated, the round chamber shifted and started breaking away from the rest of whatever it had been connected too. Genevieve nearly lost her balance, but she regained it when the tower righted itself. There was another door, one carved of dwarven stone and banded in iron. Despite the heavy appearance, the door opened easily.

On the other side, Ser Marbrand—Faith—waited. “There are others,” he said.

“Oh, _good_ ,” Genevieve sighed and the knight offered her his arm.

They were still in the Circle, or what the Fade perceived as the Circle. In the Waking World, Genevieve was still in the Deep Roads. She couldn’t recall any dwarven statues and stone work in the Circle, but it showed through in this twisted expanse of memory and magic.

She felt…peaceful, even surrounded by demons and with the Black City floating above, she felt that maybe this _was_ her final journey. It was bitter sweet. She would miss Blackwall, and she wished she could speak to Cassandra again. Maybe it was for the best, she’d been living off barrowed time since the Conclave. It only made sense that the Maker would call her to His side now, now that the Breach had been closed and Corypheus defeated.

They passed by what might have the Circle garden, a broken thing cobbled together from her memories. “Deborah taught me everything I know about herbs,” Genevieve noted, looking out a broken window. “She was a fixture of the garden,”

“She died at the Conclave.” Ser Marbrand said, Faith had been reading her memories—she didn’t mind. It was nice to talk to someone who saw what she saw, knew what she knew.

“Most ignore the Tranquil, but what was done to them doesn’t make them any less a person; when the Circles rebelled they left the Tranquil—abandoned them like unwanted children.”

The First Enchanter had chosen Genevieve to represent the remnants of the Circle at Ostwick at the Conclave. As an Aequitarian and of noble birth, the First Enchanter had thought her better equip to deal with the negotiations; her youth had been a big factor too. Those who remained at the Circle were either too old, or too young to leave the safety of their tower. But the night before she was to leave, the Circle fell under attack.

“People remember how the Templars and the mages seem to be at constant odds, they forget that the mages were never very good at agreeing with each other either.” Genevieve sighed, and continued down the path. “There were those who didn’t want us to go to the Conclave,”

Ser Marbrand nodded. “So we gathered anyone who was left and went to the Conclave.”

“That didn’t work out in the end either.” She smiled sadly, “But I left you in the Valley, to watch over those I wasn’t taking to the Temple.”

“You will always have me,”

Genevieve tried to remind herself that this Ser Marbrand was just a Spirit, but it was still a comforting thought. Ser Marbrand had been more a father to her that her own father. “Yes,” she smiled, “I’ll always have you,”

“Someone will have to take care of me when the lyrium takes its toll.”

She almost said yes, but she wasn’t sure she _was_ going to be around take care of him. The Inquisition would do right by him though; there would be someone to care for him.

“Here,” Marbrand stopped before another door.

This door looked like the one that led up to her quarters in Skyhold. Genevieve touched the handle and sighed, hesitant. She didn’t need to be afraid, she would be dead soon; burned out by fever or poisoned by infection. She vaguely recalled waking—more than once—but nothing but incoherent images came back. A burn on her side, although she would have sworn she’d been stabbed, a musty potion that left the bitter taste of ghoul’s beard in her mouth…

And that reminded her that she was in considerable pain. She fell against the door and bit back a scream. Clutching at her side, Genevieve lifted her hand away to make sure she wasn’t bleeding. But this was the Fade, her soul wasn’t harmed, just her body. She took a deep breath and forced herself through the door, Ser Marbrand watched her go, and then closed the door as she rounded the broken stairs.

It was her room, except it wasn’t. The sky was green and the mountain backdrop was floating away in pieces. The bed was a broken slab of stone and her desk and bookcases were on the ceiling. But there was no demon here—she was alone.

That was until Blackwall came up the steps. He smiled when he saw her. “There you are little bird,” he came closer, reached over and touched her cheek with a gentle hand, but then backed away, putting an awkward distance between them. “I’ve been looking all over for you,”

“Have you?” She asked, she had always thought desire demons were the easiest to see through. They had summoned a desire demon to her Harrowing; it had promised her a life with her parents, a wealthy Orlesian husband—but that life hadn’t interested her. It had been easy to defeat that demon. This one would be easy too.

_I need to get it closer_. She thought.

Blackwall’s look-alike laughed. “World’s been safe for years and they still have you running about, fixing things. You promised me a bit of time for us, remember?”

“Yes,” Genevieve answered. She wanted it to get closer, wanted it to think it had her. She would strike with ice, freeze it in place and take it out quickly from there. But only if he got close. It might break out of the ice before she had a chance to finish it off.

“You forgot didn’t you?” Blackwall asked, head titled very uncharacteristically to the side. He sighed, and stepped away towards the stone slab bed. He sat and beckoned her over. “Come sit,” he offered.

Genevieve had hoped to remain in charge of the situation, but demons seldom fell into place when plans were made. Trying to be as natural as possible, she stepped forward and sat on the stone slab. She edged as close as she dare, and Blackwall’s doppelganger reached over and took her hand.

He sighed pleasantly and placed her hand on his thigh. Had this been the real Blackwall, she might have felt at ease. But now she felt ridged, and she wondered if the demon could tell. Carefully, with the understanding that she was sticking her head into the dragon’s maw, Genevieve edged closer under she was pressed against the demon.

It still had her hand, but she needed to take control of the situation. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m tired.”

“It’s alright; we’re here now, together,”

Genevieve leaned forward and laid her head on Blackwall’s shoulder, she nuzzled, as she might have had he been real. The demon loosed its grip on her hand and she sat up, placed her palm on its chest. Gently, Genevieve moved in closer and made to kiss the Blackwall clone, who moved in eagerly and Genevieve knew she’d won.

The demon didn’t even get a chance to react as the ice crawled up its body, freezing its arms and legs, and stopping at its neckline. It didn’t look like Blackwall anymore, its illusion broken. “You just played me at my own game,” it accused.

“I like to think they didn’t make me Inquisitor for nothing,” Genevieve responded, feeling quite proud of herself. It was cathartic—taking out these demons. It was as if she was accomplishing something even with death hovering so near.

The demon laughed at her, its voice feminine and demonic. “I really thought I had you,” Genevieve decided not to respond; instead she struck with lightning, breaking the ice into razor shards. The demon died without another word.

XXXX

Ser Marbrand met her with a smile. He offered his arm and she took it. “Well done,” he said as they walked along a more open path. “You’ve done it,”

Genevieve sighed and felt a swell of peace. “Is that it?”

“The smaller ones are of no concern,” Marbrand let go of her when they reached another door. This one was different, it was overgrown with moss and ivy and there appeared to be nothing but empty Fade behind it. “Here,” he said, and changed from Marbrand to Faith Spirit. “You’ve earned it,”

Genevieve touched the door and felt a fleeting sense of panic. “Is this…it this…” she couldn’t say the words. But she had to know if this was _the door_ —if she had completed her journey through the Fade and was expected at the Maker’s side.

“No,” the Spirit answered, “you are still dreaming, your body clings to life.”

“Then this is?”

“A dream for you. So you can rest,”

Spirits could change the Fade, and demons were known for crafting illusions so that they could take over the bodies of their victims. It seemed odd that a Spirit would…make something for her. Cole, maybe, but he was more human now. But a Faith Spirit? She supposed it was possible, but she wasn’t Solas—he would have known.

She felt tired all of a sudden. The Faith Spirit floated closer and she felt the warmth of its light. “It’s like a waiting room then?” she asked the spirit. Faith didn’t answer, it just pointed at the door and Genevieve found herself pushing it open. The light from inside blinded her, taking her into peaceful darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	26. Chapter XXVI: Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

_**Chapter XXVI – Cullen** _

The rains came on the fifth day of the siege. A day later, the first Venatori reinforcements arrived, bolstering the enemy numbers from two-hundred to four-hundred. The rain turned to sleet and the mercenaries came after that. Now they had more than a thousand enemy combatants at their door and more were pouring out of the mountains as they watched, helpless. Soon, the valley was filled with the last dregs of Red Templars, Venatori, and mercs. They were under siege, the enemy had hostages, and all Cullen could think about was the Inquisitor’s _Maker-damned flowers._

The annuals were, as they often did this time of year, dying. The colder weather was too much for them. The perennials, that might have survived, were destroyed though. The hail and sleet had torn their leaves and crushed their flowers. All the Inquisitor’s hard work, ruined in one storm. 

All their hard work… _ruined._

He sensed Leliana before he heard her. Cullen did not get up from where he was seated under the roof of the gazebo. The garden was abandoned, their usual guests were inside the keep, drinking and playing games and pretending nothing wrong was happening.

“The Inquisitor will plant more,” Leliana said, she pressed a steaming cup of mulled wine into his hands. “Drink,” she insisted, “catching ill now would not bode well for us,”

Cullen lifted the cup to his lips and drank. He preferred his Ferelden ales and ciders, but there was something comforting about the warm, deep spiciness of mulled wine; still, the drink warmed his bones, but not his heart. The chill of defeat had taken him; ice had formed around his heart making every beat a struggle.

“So this is how the mighty Inquisition falls? Our people taken, our Inquisitor missing, homes burning—”

“Cullen…” Leliana began, but he stopped her with a hard glare.

“I’ve failed, Leliana—she left us here to protect our people, our home. What would she say if she could see this?”

Leliana frowned; “I imagine it would be something along the lines of ‘we get our people back and we punish those who did this,’ she may even curse.”

Cullen couldn’t help but smirk. “Maybe even throw in a blasphemy for good measure.”

Leliana laughed, “She will be very angry when she comes back; these _Venatori,_ ” she spat the word like an obscenity, “have no idea what they’ve done.”

“ _If_ , Leliana,” Cullen couldn’t help his melancholy. It kept swallowing him back up like an ocean tide. Every time he made headway, it pulled him back under. “You said it yourself, she’s in trouble. We don’t know if she’s coming back.”

“I’m surprised at you Commander,” Leliana sighed. “Our Inquisitor has defeated Corypheus and lived, she walked into Halamshiral a virgin to the Game, and survived; she has battled dragons, Red Templars, crawled out of the Fade— _twice_ —and you doubt her chances now?” She scoffed as if his misgivings were the most ridiculous thing in the world. “To borrow a phrase from Varric— _never_ bet against the hero. Out Inquisitor will return because she always does.”

Cullen sighed and drained his wine cup. “She’s not invincible,”

“No, she is not.” Leliana agreed. “But I have to believe; we are not finished Cullen. _We are not finished_.” Cullen didn’t respond. He looked over the garden and watched the sleet decimate the plants. “We cannot allow them to keep the hostages; my scouts say they have moved them into the Chantry,”

“Do you have a plan?” Cullen asked. He had spent days pouring over maps of the valley, blueprints, even the scale model one of the architects has presented to Josephine. But he had nothing. Skyhold, the village—they had been built to withstand siege. They were perfectly defensible; they had never imagined they would have to be the ones to break through the village defenses.

“I do,” Leliana took his empty cup and together they made for the keep. “We’re going to need some help. I’ve sent messengers through the tunnels to hunt down the Starkhaven archers and Merrill’s people.”

“Have they been spotted?”

“They retreated into the woods, away from the valley. My scouts came across a small group of mercenaries, a few were dead. They found a broken arrow fletched in white,”

“So they haven’t abandoned us,” Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. By the time the Inquisition’s retreat had been sounded, the Starkhaven Archer Corps had melted into the woods, their tents and horses gone. There had been evidence that they had fought alongside the Inquisition, but they had pulled back before the defeat became evident. “Then what’s your plan?”

“We need a distraction. I was thinking we open _negotiations_ ,” Leliana almost sounded sinister. “If we can lure their leaders into negotiations, it will be easier to get to their hostages.”

The keep was warm and smelled of roasting meat and mulled wine. The mood in the throne room was awkward—a mix of celebration masked by the feeling of total dread. The nobles were trying to keep themselves busy and Cullen was thankful for that, he would rather they act as if nothing was wrong and continue their festivities than have to deal with questions he didn’t have answers for.

“What should I do in the meantime?” Cullen asked, once they were in Josephine’s now empty (and somber) office. There was no telling whether the archers or even Merrill’s folk would answer their summons, but if they had even a little bit of a plan, Cullen wanted to keep busy. It was the only way to keep himself from moping around.

“I would say you should get some rest, but I know you won’t listen,” Leliana smirked. “Drill the troops maybe?”

Cullen nodded. “What will you do?”

“I have every faith in the Inquisitor, but we need help,” was all she said, before taking some of Josephine’s official stationary and excusing herself.

In the silence of Josephine’s office, Cullen entertained the idea of taking a nap, but he knew his sleeping patterns. He was not a man who could nap. But he had trouble leaving the room. This was wrong—Josephine was always in this room. This was the center of the Inquisition. They were all important, but it was Josephine that put forth their _unmistakable_ image. An image so carefully cultivated from almost nothing; a washed up Templar, an untrusted Sister, a lost Seeker, and a wayward mage. Josephine had made them into something worthy of respect and fear. Sure, their army was the best there was, their people were loyal, and their leader _was_ _chosen;_ but that meant nothing until Josephine had molded their images into the almighty Inquisition. She had put together their alliances, kept their important guests comfortable, used her mastery of the Game to garner funds and materials.

They had to get her back. Not just because she was their ambassador and they would be lost without her, but because she was their friend.

“Maker,” he intoned, “my enemies are abundant,” he paused and added his own verse; “Protect Josephine and the others, shine Your light upon them—blessed are the peacekeeper, the champions of the just—” he stopped and realized that the Maker could not help the inactive. He needed action, movement. So he got moving, the troops weren’t going to drill themselves.

XXXX

Cullen had ordered the troops to move the camp further away from the village and their enemies. Skyhold was filled to capacity, but they still had two-thousand soldiers in the valley. He pulled them under the shadow the keep, well across the partially frozen river away from the Venatori. He oversaw the move personally; tents were taken down, wagons and brontos loaded, horse corrals taken apart and rebuilt. It was a furry of work, it wasn’t much, but it felt like they were actually doing something.

By nightfall, the camp had been situated and the troops were settling down to supper. Cullen made his way back up to the keep and tracked down Leliana. She’d received word that Drummond and Merrill had been found, and were answering their call for help, but wouldn’t make it to the keep until dawn.

There was no way around it; Cullen would have to get some rest. He stopped by the kitchen first and picked up a tray of supper, it was goat stew, which wasn’t his favorite, but Belinda had poured him a big glass of apple brandy to wash it down with.

Cullen made his way up the steps to his tower office. It was nights like these that he wished there was a fireplace in the tower; a few nights ago he had a bronze brazier brought up too keep his chambers warm. What he really needed to do was fix the stupid hole in his roof; he’d been meaning to get to it for ages.

The guard on watch acknowledged him with a salute, Cullen wished him goodnight and opened the door to his office.

Something felt off. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up. He dropped the tray and unsheathed his sword before they struck. Four of them, _Chantry Templars._ Cullen battered a sword away and kicked the first one in the stomach, sending him flying into the desk. But that wasn’t enough to stop him. The Templar jumped to his feet and the four charged him.

The tower space wasn’t big enough for a full blow fight; Cullen had to weaken all his blows to keep from slamming his blade into the stone walls or his furniture. With his shield still upstairs, Cullen picked up a chair and battered away a Templar sword.

“Surrender, we don’t mean to kill you, Commander!” one of the Templars ordered. But Cullen never would. He didn’t know why they were attacking, or even if they were real Templars. It didn’t matter, they were attacking—and Leliana could figure out who they were once they were dead.

“Commander, we mean you no harm; you’re outnumbered—stop this and surrender.” Another Templar demanded. Cullen met his suggestion with a hard punch, knocking the Templar back and to the floor.

_He isn’t wrong_ , Cullen thought. He was outnumbered. He needed help, he needed to get out the door and call for the Inquisition to aide him.

Using his makeshift shield, Cullen slammed into a body, raised his sword to block another attack and forced his way towards the door. He reached it, yanked it open, and found himself face to face with the guard on watch. _Of course,_ he hadn’t been an Inquisition soldier, Cullen realized before it was too late. The Templar smashed the pommel of his sword into Cullen’s temple. The last thing Cullen thought was that only Delphine was stupid enough to stage a coup.

When he came too, his suspicion had been right. Delphine was standing with her Templars in the corner of a dark room. It looked like they’d captured the great hall; they had pushed the table up to the wall and seemed they were barricading the doors with chairs and one of the smaller tables.

“Maker be praised, are you alright, Commander?” He would recognize Belinda’s voice anywhere. And if she was here, that meant Delphine had captured the kitchen.

“Is Sister Leliana here?”

“No, thank the Maker,” Belinda answered.

Despite his throbbing headache, Cullen looked around the room and tried to gauge how many had been captured. There were a few soldiers, Cullen noted, the ones who had night watch near his tower. They had probably been taken first, then himself, then the kitchen staff. There were others too; a maid, and stable hand, one of Leliana’s scouts, an Inquisition Templar, and a mage, beaten bloody and unconscious.

“Ser Terrek,” Cullen whispered and the Templar looked up. She was loyal to the Inquisition, and had been since the beginning. Right now, she was checking over the mage, although her hands were tied behind her back. “Is he alright?”

“He’s breathing,” Terrek answered, and then said, almost proudly, “He put up a fight, I heard the commotion and came running. We were outnumbered.”

Cullen nodded and looked over to where Delphine was conferring with her Templars. He couldn’t get an accurate count. There were twelve down here with them. Delphine had come with an escort of ten Templars when she first arrived at Skyhold and Grand Cleric Mavis had come with an escort of nearly thirty. He had to assume that the Cleric’s men had joined with Delphine.

“Delphine,” Cullen growled and the Chantry shew looked over at him. “You’ve made a very big mistake.”

Delphine laughed. “You’re in no position to be making threats, Commander Cullen.” Truthfully, Cullen wasn’t particularly sure he believed this. It felt like some kind of bad joke.

“I hope you’ve captured Leliana,” sometimes just saying the Spymaster’s name was enough to put the fear of the Maker into someone.

She frowned and dismissed his statement, “We’ll have her soon enough, the Maker is with us.” Her Templars murmured their agreement, although Cullen could tell that some of them didn’t have their hearts in it. “By your actions the Divine has been spirited away—your Inquisitor had kidnapped her—and now you’ve gotten the Grand Cleric captured. I can’t tell if you’re all just fools putting us on, or if you’ve been planning this.”

Cullen felt like he’d stepped into some strange stage play. The ties around her wrists chaffed and his head hurt, his only hope was that Leliana was formulating a plan. _Ah, Maker—this is a mess._ Cullen sighed and scooched over to where Belinda was huddled with her kitchen staff. “Is everyone alright?” he asked.

“Yes, just a little rattled,” Belinda answered, her hands were tied in front of her, so she reached up with the hem of her grease stained apron and wiped the blood from his temple. “They burst in on us, forced us in here right after you left with your supper.”

Cullen sucked his teeth as she dabbed away the blood. When Belinda finished cleaning him up the best she could, Cullen looked around the room and hoped to find his sword. They’d been kind enough to leave him in his armor. Without use of his arms, Cullen felt rather useless. He decided the best thing he could do was listen, Leliana might be able to use any bit of gossip he could pick up.

The scout seemed to think the same thing. She was sitting quietly, cross-legged, and eyes closed. Her lip was bleeding, but she seemed peaceful…almost as if she had planned to be here…

Cullen took his eyes away from her and focused again on Delphine and her Templars. Delphine seemed very pleased with herself; she wore a smirk on her face like the same way some Orlesian noble who’d just won a gambit in the Game might. Cullen could only imagine that Delphine saw herself the hero of this little—coup, rebellion, _foolish ploy_ —and had no idea what she was dealing with. She probably got in her head that she was going to rescue the Cleric herself and discredit the Inquisition. But, so long as they didn’t have Leliana, they didn’t have anything.

_We really should have confined her to her room after we discovered the letter to the Cleric_ , Cullen thought, but hindsight was twenty-twenty.

Suddenly, Delphine was interrupted by a young, Templar archer and she went racing up the steps, several of her men followed after her. There was a commotion above, the stone muffled most of the noise, but it sounded like sword and shield clashing together. Cullen had to hope that Leliana was on the move.

“Pst, Commander,” the scout hissed. “Don’t look at me, nod once if you hear.” Cullen did. “Good, Nightingale sends her regards—be ready,”

Cullen couldn’t help but smirk. The scout forced herself to her feet. “Hey you,” she roared at one of their guards. Then Cullen saw the knife in her hands and that she had cut her bonds. She showed him her hands.

Two of their six guards jumped up and started towards her, their swords drawn. The scout smirked and held the knife in a fighting position.

The other Templars stirred to action then, but they turned on their two fellow Templars. It was short and bloody. But when it was done the four Templars stood around the bodies of their fallen brethren and accepted coin from the scout. So Leliana had known and she had bought some of the Templars.

“Well done, yeah,” the scout was saying. “The Inquisitor appreciates your service,” The Templar’s thanked her, counted their coin, and then stood off to the side as she freed the rest of the prisoners.

Still unsure of where his sword was, Cullen picked up one of the fallen Templar’s swords and shield. Terrek picked up another sword and their soldiers made due with whatever they could find.

“Right then,” Cullen sighed, head still pounding. “Inquisition, we put an end to this farce,” he lead them up the stairs that only moments before, Delphine had run up. The stairs opened up into Josephine office, and the door to the throne room had been thrown open.

Cullen had expected fighting, but they were too late. The fighting was over. Delphine and her loyal Templars had been subdued. The hall was a mess though, the tables had been overturned and food was spilled on the floor, the nobles were gone—probably to their rooms where they would be safe—and one of the curtains was still smoldering where it had caught fire.

“Let me give you a lesson on the Game, Delphine,” Leliana was saying from her set atop one of the tables. She was counting out gold pieces and ordering them into little stacks. “No matter how good you think you are at the Game, someone is always better than you,” she took the first stack of coins and held them out to the first Templar. “Most soldiers can be bought, especially the young ones—ah Commander,”

“Leliana,” Cullen nearly chuckled. “Am I to assume that you meant for me to be captured?”

“I needed her to think that she was winning for a time; that’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew she was going to attack, I didn’t know when.” She pressed coins into Templar hands and told them that the Inquisitor was thankful for their service.

“Does the Inquisitor know you’ve been bribing Templars?” Cullen asked.

“They’ve always been _our_ Templars; Delphine just didn’t know it,” Leliana finished handing out coins and looked down at the Revered Mother. “And what to do with you?”

“Val Royeaux will know about this,” Delphine’s voice was shrill—she was afraid. And rightly so, even Cullen had a slightly healthy fear of Leliana. “The Divine will know!”

Cullen couldn’t help but laugh, it was too pathetic to be threatening. The very idea that Cassandra would be upset with them for throwing Delphine in the dungeon was ridiculous. “Oh trust me, she’ll know.” He thought for a second that he should have been angry, but it would be a wasted effort. With Venatori camped outside the Keep, being angry at Delphine and her wayward Templars would have been a waste of his increasingly valuable time.

“And so will the Inquisitor,” Leliana added. “A coup, in her castle—the Inquisitor is merciful, but I can only imagine how she might react when she hears that a Revered Mother led Templars in an attempted takeover, captured her commander, terrorized her servants, beat some of her people bloody…”

“The Chantry won’t stand for this! I will informed the Revered Mothers at once,”

“That would require paper and ink, as well as birds and soldiers.” Leliana explained. “Which you won’t have.” She made a motion with her hands and five of her scouts came forward to separate Delphine from her Templars. “Take her to her quarters, ransack the room and take everything—the Revered Mother has worn out her welcome.”

“And the Templars?” Cullen asked. A noose would do them well and teach their friends a lesson, but they would need every soldier they could get.

“The dungeons, I think,” Cullen had to agree, that was the best place for them.

When the hall was clear and the signs of battle cleaned up, Cullen sat down to a late supper. Leliana joined him. “Here,” she said, placing a pale red potion in front of him. “For your head; it’s from the Inquisitor’s own stock.”

“Thank you,” he drank it quickly and felt the tingle of magic and healing herbs moments later. “I can’t believe you foiled a coup,”

“Delphine is predictable, I knew she would try something so I made it clear the Inquisitor has a heavy purse and is grateful for honorable men and women,” she smirked. “The information came quickly. I’ve had my people in place for days, just in case.”

“Would have been nice to know,” for some reason he felt better, he supposed it was because they’d dealt with one enemy already. Delphine had been against them since she’d first arrived in Skyhold. It felt good to know he didn’t have to worry about her anymore.

Leliana shook her head and smiled. “It was short notice,” then a sigh, “In any event, we should get some rest. I’ll have you woken the moment the First Bow and Merrill arrive.” Cullen nodded, finished his supper, and made his way back to his tower.

His office was a wreck, he would have to clean it up later, but someone had been kind enough to stoke the bronze brazier in the loft above. Cullen stripped out of his armor and tunic and slid between the sheets and furs of his bed. He was beginning to think that the potion Leliana had given him had been a sleeping draught when he finally fell asleep.

XXXX

The First Bow of Starkhaven had a black-eye and a hastily bandaged cut on her cheek. Her armor was scuffed and caked in mud, but she still greeted Cullen with a hearty handshake. Together, they stood outside the war room, waiting for Leliana and Merrill to arrive.

“Got to close to a bloke who wasn’t dead,” she explained when Cullen asked about her eye.

“Thanks you for your help,”

“No thanks needed, my Prince gave me orders. I’m following them.”

“How are your men?”

“Not so hungry and cold since we picked off those mercs, took every useful scrap they had. The Archer Corps hasn’t stepped out of Starkhaven in a long, long time, Commander—but we still know how to survive.” She yawned and stretched. “It was a wee bit of a surprise when your people found us in the woods.”

“Leliana’s people are very good at what they do.”

“Aye,” she paused and he knew she was finally going to mention the bronto in the room. “How did this happen?”

Cullen wasn’t really sure how it had happened. Foolish oversight? Willful naiveté? Prideful negligence? They had won every battle after their defeat at Haven. He had never dreamed that they might be attacked here. That someone would once again violate their home the way it had been violated at Haven. But then again, they hadn’t marched in with an army. They had used tricks—the Inquisition’s own good will against them.

“You know,” Cullen began, slowly. “Before all this, I would have told you that no one could besiege Skyhold, that this valley was too well guarded, too well manned, for such a thing to happen. That only a fool would dream of striking at us here,” he sighed. “But now I know, and now I have to fix.” His head was still pounding from last night, but he couldn’t stop the words that soon tumbled out of his mouth. “They used the Inquisitions own goodwill against us, charity, mercy— _they twisted it._ Took advantage of our kindness, of what makes the Inquisition what it is.” It was beyond a violation of trust; it was simply…a _violation._ Cullen felt wrong. “Perhaps it’s time to stop this, to stop—”

Leliana’s voice echoed through the hall; “If we stop being what we are, then the Venatori have already won.” Merrill padded quickly behind her. The elf looked a little worse-for-wear, but she was unhurt. “We are not our enemies, the Venatori who value pain and suffering, who would enslave anyone who dared turn against them. We are the Inquisition, champions of the just—in our blood, the Maker’s will is written.”

“Hawke once told me that goodness for its own sake is the best kind of goodness…or was it charity? Oh, I can never remember.” Merrill shook her head and sighed. “She always gave sound advice, you know…in between the cursing. Sebastian was training that out of her though—I’m rambling, sorry. I mean, I’ll stop.”

“Have you heard the news then?” Cullen asked, pushing open war room door and ushering the others in.

“Hawke’s been found? Yes, Sister Nightingale told me on the way here.” Once they were situated around the war table, she clutched the wood and sighed. “Which it great, I’m happy—but—if this isn’t too forward—we have a problem to deal with.”

There was no arguing with that. Cullen surveyed the war table; the scale model of the village was still set up on the table. Leliana pointed to the Chantry of Our Lady’s Herald. “My scouts say they’re holding the hostages here,”

“How many?” Drummond asked.

Leliana shook her head. “Ambassador Montilyet, Grand Cleric Mavis, Revered Mother Giselle, Ser Brandon, any workers still inside the Chantry, villagers—we think they killed the escort soldiers we left,”

Cullen took the news with a heavy heart. Part of him had hoped that his soldiers had been taken captive like the rest. “What’s your plan?”

“There’s a cavern in the underground stables that leads into the Chantry—it was found by the men working in the Chantry,” she paused and then looked up at Cullen, her eyes sharp. “And yes, I believe this is the tunnel the Inquisitor used.”

Cullen nodded; he had been searching for the answer to that question since he found the Inquisitor’s chambers empty. But now it was nothing more than a consolation prize, he had other things to worry about.

“So we have a way in,” Cullen said, assuring Leliana that he would not drag up any argument about escape tunnels.

Leliana nodded. “We call their leader, Aramis, although I am sure that isn’t his real name. He is a magister; he has made the chantry their base of operations.”

“Makes sense,” Lady Moraven pointed to the front of the miniature chantry. “It’s the most defensible position; from the summit you can see everything in the valley. It’s a good place to put archers, especially along the outer courtyard and on the bridge.”

“My plan is to use the tunnels under Skyhold to enter the Chantry and rescue the hostages. In order for my plan to work, we will need a distraction. That’s what I need you three for,” Leliana folded her hands. “You are our leaders and will have to make a show of inviting our _friends_ to set their terms and negotiate.”

“You want to draw out their leaders, take them unaware.” Merrill smiled. “But are you sure you want..?”

“Yes, you’re the leader of people under our protection you have every right to be involved in these proceedings.” Cullen assured her. “What exactly are we going to offer them?”

“Nothing, by tomorrow morning they will have nothing to bargain with.” Leliana smirked. “I just need you to keep their leaders distracted, I’ll signal the moment we have the hostages safe.”

Cullen sighed and wondered how best to get their enemy’s attention. Soldiers under a white flag maybe? They would have to hold the negotiations on neutral ground. He would have his men set up a tent, offer food—he tried to channel Josephine. How would she set up negotiations?

_The Inquisition must appear powerful, but approachable;_ _cross us and we destroy you, befriend us and we aide you_. He could practically hear her voice echoing in his mind. A pavilion with comfortable chairs, food, wine, officials standing around nervously. _Argh,_ he hated it already. But he would do it.

“Are we agreed then?”

“I will oversee the rescue myself,” Leliana added.

The First Bow nodded. “I agree; the Archer Corps is with you,”

“Yes,” Merrill decided. “So long as you need me, I owe you the help,” It was settled, they had their plan. Now they just needed their enemies to take the bait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to update next week on Friday as my beta and I will be engaged in Halloween based activities on Saturday.


	27. Chapter XXVII: Leliana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween and thanks for reading!

_**Chapter XXVII – Leliana** _

Leliana knew her people were more than capable, but as she prepared herself for the night’s raid, she missed Harding. Lace Harding was easier to approach, people found it easier to speak to, report to, and take orders from her. Nightingale was…more terrifying. Leliana knew that and it showed, especially when she informed her agents that she would be personally overseeing the rescue.

Their comfort, however, did not concern her. This mission was too delicate for her to simply stand on the sidelines.

Spider, one of Leliana’s elven agents would be her second-in-command. He knew the tunnels just as well as she did and he had helped her select the thirteen agents who would go with them. She needed ten, at least, to enter the chantry with her, and three to stay behind in the tunnels and guide the hostages to safety.

“We move quietly,” she said, addressing the assembled agents. “We kill silently, the hostages are our first priority, we need to remove the leverage the Venatori have over us,” there was a mumbling of agreement. Spider handed Leliana her bow and a quiver of arrows. “Let’s go,”

Before entering the stables, Leliana climbed the steps to the battlements and looked over the wall. From her vantage point she spotted the green tented pavilion, torches lit the area; she saw the movement of servants and ambassadors, on one side, the Inquisition’s flags fluttered in the winter wind. Sundown would be in a few minutes, it was time to move.

Leliana led her people into the barn and down into the underground stables where they put up the rest of the Inquisition’s war horses. This was how the Inquisitor had gotten out of Skyhold practically unseen. It was humid and smelled of horse and manure.

Spider and two other agents stepped forward and shifted the heavy iron hatch. It was a straight drop down; even with torch light, Leliana could only see the first three rungs of the ladder. The ladder and hatch were newer than the tunnel; she had ordered them installed when they first discovered the gaping hole.

Leliana dropped a tar dipped torch down the hole and watched the flickering light until it hit the ground below. It was not enough light for anyone to see by, but it would provide a little comfort to those climbing down.

“Follow the light,” Spider muttered and lowered himself down. The other agents followed, Leliana last of all.

The tunnel walls were moist and the air was heavy with wet coldness. Sconces had been drilled into the walls at regular intervals; they left torches behind to mark their progress and guide them back.

Leliana had explored all of the tunnels under Skyhold, she knew where they all lead out, which ones were dead ends, which ones had held unsavory secrets and which ones would be useful and which ones needed to be sealed up immediately. She called this tunnel the Chantry Tunnel, it stretched down into the earth, not as far or deep as the Deep Roads, but a very close second.

After a brutal, slippery descent, the tunnel opened up into a wide cavern. Running water cut the cavern in half and a bridge had been built to allow for crossing. There, the tunnel led sharply up. Leliana was unsure if the stairs were natural or carved by man. Then the passageway split; one side leading up to the Chantry, the other leading to a mountain path below the Chantry.

They climbed up the rightmost path and before it leveled out, even Leliana was starting to feel a burn in her legs. She only had to remind herself of the snowy caverns and the Temple of Sacred Ashes and how difficult those had been to traverse. At least in this tunnel she didn’t have to battle raving lunatic cultist and dragons.

The channel evened out and came to a dead end. Leliana called a quiet halt. Her people knew how to be silent, they drew their weapons without being prompted—bows and daggers, assassin’s weapons.

“You three,” Leliana pointed out three of the youngest members of her team. “Stay here, guide the rescued out.” they saluted in response. Then, she ordered the rest to douse their torches and motioned for Spider to open the secret passage.

The chantry had once been a natural cave, and this passage had been hidden until Leliana had gone down herself and found it. It led into what would one day be the crypt—the final resting place for the ashes of the Inquisition’s people. The shelves had been carved and decorated with dragons and mighty warriors, Andraste and sunbursts, and other great figures from history and scripture. Leliana suspected that one day her ashes would be placed to rest here, alongside Cullen, and the Inquisitor. It was strange, knowing exactly where her remains would be placed upon her death.

Spider and two other agents slipped into the dark crypt. Leliana peered through the darkness and spotted their first two victims. She crept into the hallway, arrow nocked to her bow, but Spider and his friend where there first.

There was a slight gurgle and moan as the two agents grabbed the Venatori by the head and drew their daggers across their necks. They eased the two men onto the ground and left them in the quiet crypt.

A door had not yet been hung over the crypt entrance down to the catacombs. It was fortuitous; there would be no squeak to announce their presence.

At the entryway, Leliana signaled for her agents to enter the chantry. They did, crouched in the dark shadows of the inner chamber. Leliana was last of all, she moved within the darkness, stopped motionless when a Venatori soldier turned and looked at her. He turned back after a moment and came to rest behind a pillar, arrow still nocked to her bow.

Carefully, she peered out from behind the column and looked over the scene. There were only three or four armed soldiers—two swordsmen, a woman with carried daggers on her back, and a heavily armored man who had a battleax so large that he had to lean it up against the chantry wall. She had been expecting guards—what she hadn’t expected was the mages—there were a dozen of them, at least. They stood in a circle around the center of the room, where the hostages sat huddled together.

Leliana looked around for Josephine, tried to spot the golden fabric of her dress. But it was too dark and she found her search interrupted.

“Tell my boy I will only speak to the Inquisitor—I have no interest in her…inferiors.” Leliana felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. _Aramis himself_ , she smirked. They might be able to end this right now.

But first she would listen; a few moments of eavesdropping might give them some valuable information.

“Lord Titanous, what of their demands of the hostages?” one of the soldiers was saying. It seemed everything was going to plan down in the valley.

“Did I not answer?” the old mage growled and Leliana saw him reach over and grab the man by the chin. “I will only speak to their Inquisitor, I am a magister, worthy of her full attention—not the drippings she calls _Commander Rutherford_.” He pushed the soldier away and dismissed him with an arthritic hand. Then he shuffled slowly past the ring of mages and into the mass of hostages. “Up,” he commanded, and Josephine rose defiantly from the mass. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were dirty, but she was Josephine through and through.

“I would know the whereabouts of your _Herald_ ,” The mages laughed as if some private joke had been said. “The little girl drawn on these walls is barely old enough to walk,” then he reached out and grabbed Josephine’s face, his fingers tracing the lines of her features.

_The blind one doesn’t like her either_ , Cole had always known, and she had been too thick and too focused on Delphine to realize what he’d been talking about.

_“The Herald of Andraste,”_ Josephine spoke politely, but her voice was stressed with insult. Leliana could tell she was holding back her words, words that might get her hurt. “Had urgent business elsewhere; but she’ll return—you’ll know, things will start falling apart for you from there,”

“So much faith in one person, you’d think she was a god,” the old mage laughed, the other mages laughed too. The hall echoed with it, and the calmness that Leliana had been so carefully cultivating was beginning to crumble. She was angry now. Here they were, invaders, using their chantry—a place of peace—as a staging ground for their war. They had kidnapped their people, defaced their home, burned their village, and insulted their Maker, his Bride, and his Herald. It was about time they put an end to this farce.

Leliana drew her bowstring back and made a motion with her head.

_One. Two. Three._ She fired. Her arrow sped across the room, past one of the soldiers, and right for the Venatori leader.

But it never reached him.

Leliana almost gasped as the arrow slapped against a magical barrier and fell to the ground with a harmless clatter. Every eye in the chantry fell on them.

“Kill them all! For the Inquisition! For the Herald of Andraste!” Leliana screamed and was echoed. There was no time to waste, she burst from the shadows, another arrow drawn and tried to fire through the barrier.

“Treachery!” the old mage roared. “The negotiations were a trick!”

Leliana saw him throw Josephine to the ground; she jumped over a sword thrust from one of the soldiers, and ran right into the barrier, she hit the stone with a cold smack. Around her, her agents were battling. Two fell before the large battleax brute, another screeched as a mage caught her in a fire trap.

Like the sudden shift of wind, things had gone terribly wrong.

A soldier raised his sword and tried to strike her; Leliana blocked the attack with her bow, thrust her leg up and caught his knee, bring the man to the ground. Another quick move and Leliana was on her feet, hands around his neck. She popped his neck free of his spine and threw the body out of her way.

_The mages must be controlling the barrier;_ Leliana had always been a quick thinker. She would kill one of the mages, maybe break through—all she needed to do was get close enough and their leader would be dead. She drew a dagger from her belt and grabbed the nearest mage, she was about to plunge her knife into his chest when Josephine cried out.

“Leliana, stop!”

Leliana looked up and spotted Aramis, she expected him to be holding Josephine, threatening her life—but he wasn’t. He held a child. A moment of doubt passed her. She could kill the mage, sacrifice the child, and rescue the others. The child’s sacrifice would not be in vain, he would be remembered.

But she couldn’t.

“Retreat,” Leliana muttered. “Hold on,” she told the hostages as she began backing up. She still held the mage. “We haven’t forgotten you. We won’t forget you.” Then to the Venatori. “This isn’t over.”

“I’m counting on it,” Aramis answered. “Tell your Inquisitor that I look forward to meeting her.”

As soon as she was at the crypt entry way, Leliana gave the mage a sharp push and ran for the exit.

XXXX

As Leliana returned to the surface, she ordered guards to patrol all the tunnels. They had failed. Again. And _miserably_. Now that the Venatori knew there was a secret way into Skyhold, she couldn’t risk them using it to strike at them. She would probably have sealed them if they weren’t so useful.

“Where is Commander Cullen?” She asked a captain on watch.

“In the valley below, the Venatori left negotiations very suddenly, Sister,” he answered smartly. Leliana called for a horse and took herself down to the valley floor and into camp.

Cullen was in a command tent with his officers, the First Bow, and Lady Merrill. He looked up at her and sighed. He seemed to know about their failure. Her expression had probably given him everything he needed to know. “We aren’t going to be able to do this without help, Leliana.” He sounded tired, more exhausted than he had ever been.

“I would like to speak with the Commander alone,” Leliana said, there were nods and everyone shuffled out of the tent.

“They will only speak with the Inquisitor.” Cullen muttered. “We kept them busy as long as we could, offered our terms, food, drink—but a man came down from the Chantry screaming betrayal.”

Leliana frowned. “They had a barrier over the hostages—I didn’t account for so many mages.”

“It’s not your fault.” Cullen told her. “But we’re going to need help. They’ll probably retaliate for our trick—hostages are going to die, Leliana.” He threw himself down in one of the camp chairs and ran his hand through his hair and then rubbed his temples.

“Dorian and the others will find the Inquisitor; she’ll know what to do.”

“We’re her _advisors_ , Leliana,” Cullen exclaimed, his voice expressing deep frustration. He looked ten years older in this light; Leliana imagined she didn’t look much better. “If we can’t handle a crisis while she’s away, what help can we give her? What help can she give us?”

But she never got to answer; Captain Fawkes, who was charged with keeping the camp, came through the tent flap. “Ser, you better come out here,”

Cullen got up from his chair, buckled his sword belt and they both stepped out into the camp. The camp was deathly silent, eerily so. It was like a ghost had been spotted and everyone had chosen to hold their breath to keep it at bay.

But it was worse than a ghost. Toulouse and five other Venatori soldiers came riding through the center of camp on stolen horses. Soldiers gathered around the center, creating a sea of people and closing off the Venatori’s escape route. The soldiers were quiet, Leliana found herself impressed with their self-control; _they’re well trained,_ she reminded herself.

Cullen stepped into their path, hand on his sword. “I thought negotiations were over,”

The boy held a haughty smile, “My father commanded me to give you a gift,” then he motioned with his hand and his men threw three heavy sacks onto the ground. One of them opened and a head rolled out into the muck.

The rage bubbled up then _. “Fucking blighters!”_ a soldier roared. _“Murderers!”_ another cry. The crowd was seizing closer, closing the Venatori in.

“My father ordered me to return some of our prisoners,”

Leliana held her mask of indifference, and Cullen ordered his soldiers to quiet down. He motioned for Captain Fawkes to collect their dead comrades; she did so with the vilest of expressions. “I’d rather you ordered me to kill that cur,” she growled, low enough that only Leliana could hear here.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t kill your ambassador,” Toulouse was laughing as if this was some kind of game. He had to be the Inquisitor’s age, younger maybe. “Father says he will only speak with your Inquisitor, though I don’t know why. It’s not like he can see her, I will say you picked a very fetching figurehead. A little too plump for my liking, but I can make due. Perhaps she would trade herself for her ambassador,”

“She is not—” Captain Fawkes growled, her hand on her sword. She was ready to draw it.

“You’re right,” the boy interrupted. “She’s worth less than one fine ambassador—perhaps a peasant or two?”

“No one insults the Herald of—”

“Enough Fawkes,” Cullen growled, stopping his Captain with a look.

“He stands there and calls the Inquisitor a whore and you—”

“He won’t be calling her a whore after he’s dead,” Cullen smirked. “I daresay when the Inquisitor comes home she might light him on fire,” Leliana and the camp chuckled; he was acting very different from the Cullen she found in the tent. Insults from the enemy were a good way to get any soldier riled.

Toulouse didn’t take kindly to the laughter. “Your Inquisitor will die before—”

_“Our Inquisitor will crush you beneath her heel!”_ Someone in the crowd yelled, there was loud agreement.

“You’re all going—” the boy looked panicked now. “The Elder One is—Tevinter will—”

“Our Inquisitor killed your god, boy! I like our chances!”

Leliana couldn’t help but smirk as the Venatori began to back up; they had lost control of the situation. “We’re under a flag of truce, you can’t—”

_“Wily serpent, your days are numbered!”_ someone shouted and a rock came sailing through the crowd and landed before the feet of Toulouse’s horse.

“That’s enough!” Cullen cried. “They’re under truce, Fawkes, see these men escorted out of camp.”

“Yes, ser,” Fawkes saluted smartly and pointed down the center of camp. “Off you go, whelp.”

Before Cullen could follow after his Captain, Leliana grabbed his arm and said. “To answer your question, Commander, _hope._ She gives hope.”


	28. Chapter XXVIII: The Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy N7 Day!

_**Chapter XXVIII – The Inquisitor** _

Genevieve woke with something heavy pressed against her chest. Beside her, Blackwall was snoring softly, and at the foot of the bed, a great mabari hound with a brindle coat and cropped ears was moving his legs in sleep, chasing some dreamed up rabbit. Gently, she smoothed her fingers over the figure using her chest as a pillow. 

A little head peaked up at her and blue eyes found hers. She felt a sudden tug in her chest, as if someone had taken hold of her heartstrings and given them a good yank. Tears prickled in the corner of her eyes because she knew who this was.

_“Son,”_ the word tasted funny on her tongue, but she liked it. His hair was feathery, but it was black. He couldn’t have been any more than three. Justin, she suddenly knew. _His name is Justin_ , named after Divine Justinia. Thomas was the oldest at nine and was beginning to insist he was old enough for a real blade; Cassy was named for Divine Victoria and at eight, Genevieve suspected her magic would show soon; Natalia and Martin—twins, six, and both would be mages, she just knew it; Justin was three, although he would insist three-and-a-half; and then, of course, there was her little Derrek, not yet old enough to walk. All these memories came flooding back as if she was reliving them. She knew everything, although she felt like she couldn’t _actually_ remember being there.

_Sweet Maker, how many babes do I have?_ She smoothed Justin’s hair again and he crawled up to her and placed a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“I had a nightmare, Mama,” he whispered.

“That’s no good, sweetling; you want to tell me about it?” she let him nestle into her and she held him close.

“You and Papa got into a fight,” he began, his voice a scared whimper.

“Oh?”

“A big one and you got mad,” it seemed he didn’t want to tell her the rest, but she coaxed it out of him with a few soft words. “…and you got so mad that you burned him up and when Uncle Cullen tried to stop you, you burned him up too.”

It was disturbing to say the least. She expected his nightmare might have some imagined monster under his bed that she would have to chase out and prove to him it was his imagination. _But this?_

“I would never do that,” she told him. “Papa and I love each other,”

“Never ever?”

_“Never ever,”_ she smiled and kissed his forehead. “Now, why don’t you wake up Papa and we can go down for breakfast?”

Justin needed little encouragement; he jumped over to Blackwall’s side of the bed and started shaking him and yelling in his ear. There was a lot of groaning and irritated mumbling as Genevieve got up and padded over to the crib where baby Derrek slept. The baby cooed and reached up with a tiny hand.

Genevieve met his hand with a finger. He clutched her finger with a baby’s strength; she knew deep in her heart that this one was going to take after his Da and his namesake. He might even be Commander of the Inquisition or a Seeker of Truth, maybe a chevalier in service to the Empire. It didn’t matter, he was destined for knighthood and the thought made her swell with a mother’s pride.

Although, right now, he was a babe and he looked hungry. She’d nursed five other children and she knew that eager look. Gently, she lifted him out of the crib and cradled him in her arms. Blackwall had finally sat up and Justin was lying on top of the hound, playfully tugging the dog’s ears.

“Justin, Grunt’s a dog not a horse,” Blackwall grumbled, stood up and pulled the boy off the dog. “Go on down to the kitchens, we’ve a busy day to day.”

Genevieve smiled. Blackwall had aged with dignity. His beard and hair were slightly peppered with gray, but the line of worry around his eyes had changed to laugh lines and he’d taken on a little weight, the kind that came with good harvests and mild winters. The kind that proved a time of peace. He was as handsome as they day she’d first met him.

“Good morning, little bird,” it warmed her to know that she was still his little bird, even though they were getting on in years. She sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, Derrek cooed eagerly as she bared a breast for him to nurse.

Blackwall smiled and went to kiss the top of her head. “How’re you feeling?” he asked and started getting dressed for the day.

“Alright,” she answered.

“I know you took a potion, and you’d think after _six_ I’d get used to it, but I hate it when you feel sick.”

She wasn’t very sure what he was taking about, until it hit her like a ton of bricks. For half a moment she had completely forgotten. _I’m pregnant._ She laughed and Blackwall fixed her with a curious look. “Oh Blackwall,” she chuckled. “I seem to have lapses in memory—it’s like my head is filled with air,”

“Blackwall?” he smiled awkwardly. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

“I haven’t?”

This time he laughed. “I see what you mean, forgetful indeed.” Dressed in clean clothes, Blackwall— _Thom_ —Genevieve reminded herself, kissed her again, kissed their youngest son, and pressed a kiss to his fingers before placing his hand on her belly. “I’ll send someone up to help with Derrek,”

“Thank you; be down in a bit,”

Thom left, the hound followed after him, and she relished the morning silence. Her room looked much the same as it had all those years ago, although she had moved the glass jars of herbs higher up on the bookshelf and had moved all the papers that usually covered her desk to a place where grasping children’s fingers couldn’t get them. There were toys in the corner too, hand carved griffons and dragons, little wooden Inquisition soldiers, and a rocking dracolisk that looked suspiciously like Fiend. It was Thom’s work; he was always making new toys for their children.

Derrek quit suckling, Genevieve covered herself and patting her baby’s back until he left out a little burp. Still cradling him, she stepped out on the balcony and felt the chill of cool air. Winter was on its way, and although she liked the chill wind, she closed the door back up and bundled Derrek closer.

An elven and human servant came in a few minutes later, the elf happily took Derrek and sang to him as she changed his nappy and dressed him. The other servant, Mary, Genevieve recalled her name, helped her dress. It was a fine blue dress trimmed in eggshell white lace and with a cape lined in fennec fur.

“Shall I ensure the children wash and dress, your Worship?” Robyn—the elf, Genevieve remembered—asked. Derrek was settled comfortably in her arms, his dressing gown was sown with nug skin to keep him warm. “The Divine will be here within the hour,”

_The Divine, Maker’s breath how could I have forgotten?_ “Yes, of course; make sure Thomas cleans behind his ears.” He was at that stage where he insisted that knights didn’t wash and cleanliness was for _ladies_ and _not warriors._ Genevieve begged to differ; she would not present her unclean brood to _the Divine_. “And if he gives you trouble, bring him right to me,”

“Yes, your Worship.” The elf left them.

“I’m not going to fit in this one soon,” Genevieve commented as Mary tightened the laces.

“Not with another wee one on the way,” Mary chuckled and Genevieve touched her stomach, she wasn’t showing a bump, but she knew the tightness in her dress wasn’t from too many sweets. “Lady Montiylet will want to speak to you, your Worship—about the Divine,”

“Of course,” Genevieve ran a brush through her hair; she still kept it short all the better to keep it out of sticky baby hands. “I’m sure everything is perfect, but she’ll find something to worry about.”

Mary played with Genevieve’s hair for a moment then smiled. “You look beautiful, your Worship.”

Genevieve smiled and Mary excused herself. When the servant left, Josephine came up. She looked pristine as ever, although her voice betrayed an inner anxiety. “The Divine is in the Valley, Inquisitor—I needed to go over a last few minute things with you.”

“Go on,” Genevieve smiled, she desired a cup of tea and some honeyed toast, but it seemed it would have to wait on the Divine’s pleasure.

“I pushed back breakfast—instead it will be a private affair, you, the Divine, and your family, Mother Giselle,” Genevieve nodded and Josephine continued. “And for the feast—I know Ser Rainer prefers roasted boar, but I changed the main entrée to beef. As you know, this is a very important day; marking the Anniversary of the Elder One’s defeat I want everything to be perfect. Boar doesn’t seem like the kind of thing to serve on such a momentous occasion.”

Genevieve scratched her head, but nodded assumingly to Josephine. How many years had it been? She couldn’t remember.

“It’s alright Josephine, beef, boar, I don’t care. Just make sure there’s chicken, you know how picky the twins are.”

“Of course,”

“And if I’m busy with the Divine, make sure someone keeps an eye on Thomas, I do not want a repeat of the Winterstide feast.” He was their trouble maker, spirited, fearless, stubborn, _“like his mum,”_ Thom always insisted.

“Of course,” Josephine smiled and sighed. “It only feels like it was yesterday, doesn’t it? He’s been dead for ten years, but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, thinking we’re still fighting.”

Genevieve nodded and spoke wistfully, almost as if a cloud of fog covered the past. “And I have six children; somehow the whole bloody world has managed to not destroy itself,”

“Even so, we’ll be around to fix it.” Josephine flashed one of her stunning smile and winked.

“I suppose so,” Genevieve smoothed the fur collar of her cape. “We should probably go down now; I need to make my inspection,”

Josephine laughed. “The last time I saw Justin he was covered in jam; Belinda is going to spoil him, he’s got your sweet tooth, you know.”

“Don’t remind me,” Genevieve laughed and they went downstairs.

She spotted her little Cassandra first. At eight, Cassy was already proving that one day she would be prettier than her mother. She had her father’s eyes and her mother’s hair and she carried herself like a proper noble lady. Her teacher was a Chantry Sister formerly of a noble Orlesian house, and she had been teaching young Cassandra everything it took to be a noblewoman.

Right now, Cassy was sitting at one of the long tables as a group of Orlesian ambassadors fawned over how pretty she was and what a lovely young woman she was going to grow into.

“You’ll have your mother’s magic, I’m sure of it,” Vivienne had arrived a few days ago; and while she was a friend and certainly a powerful mage, Genevieve wasn’t sure she wanted her to be courting her daughter for the Circle of Magi.

Genevieve approached and Cassy jumped up from where she was sitting. “Good morning, mother,” she curtsied and all the nobles around her aww’d in utter delight. “Grand Enchanter Vivienne was telling me about the Circle of Magi—were you once an enchanter in the Circle?”

“I was,” she answered and leaned down to kiss her daughter’s forehead. “Good morning Vivienne,”

“Inquisitor, you’re positively glowing. Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?” Vivienne asked.

Genevieve never put much thought into the gender of her children. It wasn’t like she needed an heir to inherit the position of Inquisitor, but, she already had three boys… “I wouldn’t mind another girl, even things out a bit, you know?”

“Of course, darling,” Vivienne smiled and the nobles around her all cooed their hopes for another adorable little _Inquisition girl._

After enduring their well-wishes and pandering, Genevieve turned back to Vivienne and her daughter. 

“Have you given any more thought to my proposal?” the Grand Enchanter pressed.

Genevieve frowned, she had given it thought, at least she thought she had. In any event, she didn’t want to let her Cassy go just yet. As of yet there was no guarantee that she was even a mage and she did not relish the thought of sending her daughter into a nest of vipers like the Circle of Magi or the Orlesian Court. She didn’t want her to be a piece in Vivienne’s game.

“I still have my trepidation,” she answered, then looked down at Cassy. “Go fetch your brothers, love; I would like to inspect them before the Divine arrives.”

Ever eager to please, Cassy left them, giving Genevieve a chance to vent her true feelings. “I am not sure the Circle is the place for her, Vivienne,”

“I know darling, but think of the things I could teach her? She would make a fine Knight Enchanter,”

“I don’t doubt your teaching, I will never doubt that. But the Inquisition still has enemies, even in Val Royeaux.”

Vivienne didn’t argue this, and then excused herself as Thom approached, their children with him, and Derrek cradled in his arms. “I’ve gathered the troops for inspection, Inquisitor,” he chuckled. “Fall in,” the children arranged themselves in order from oldest to youngest as they did on every feast day. The Inquisitor had to keep up appearances, even with her own family. Her children were very good at it, as if they understood the life they had been born into. That wasn’t to say they didn’t break the rules or get into fights or cause scenes—because they were children, and that’s what children do—but they were well behaved and polite.

Thomas had met the Divine once as a babe; as a new mother, Genevieve had refused to leave her newborn even when called away on business in the capital. Divine Victoria had been more than pleased to meet him and she had blessed him with her own hands. The other children had never met the Divine in person, but knew of her. Genevieve was raising six Andrastians and the Divine had a habit of sending them toys, books, and letters. She could only imagine that they were nervous about meeting the most powerful woman in the world—one who doted on them from afar.

“Thomas took a bath, I checked.” Thom laughed and ruffled his son’s brown hair. “And if he’s a good lad, I’m sure the Divine would like to see him train in the yard,”

Thomas’ eyes brightened; he had his father’s eyes and he was already getting lanky. One day he would be taller than her. “Really mum? Can I?”

Genevieve smiled. “I would never deny Her Holiness the right to see such a mighty warrior in action,” this put a huge smile on his face and he swore to behave himself.

“You look very pretty today, Cassandra,” Genevieve would address each child in turn, although Cass hardly needed to be reminded about her behavior. She was even wearing the dress the Divine had sent to her for her Name-Day.

No man could look at the twins and say they were not Thom Rainer’s children. They had his hair and his eyes and his chin too. Natalia had a little bit of her mother’s fine bone structure. But there was no denying who their father was. But they were going to have her magic—she could just tell. Unlike Cassy, who hadn’t shown any apparent abilities, there were times when the two seemed to disappear into thin air or do something that didn’t seem possible for six year olds. She had yet to test them, but only because she felt so certain.

“Natalia, do you think you might sing tonight before the feast?” She had been taking singing lessons with Cassandra while her brothers trained. Natalia was shy, but she agreed, and Martin asked if the Divine would want to see him practice too.

“Of course,” Divine Victoria would be in Skyhold for a few weeks, there was plenty of time for them to get a chance to show off.

Now it was Justin’s turn. He wore a new, green velvet doublet and as of yet it was not stained. But there was still a few minutes before the Divine arrived in the yard, that was plenty of time for someone like him to get into a mud puddle or a jam jar.

“You’re to stay clean,” she warned him. “I very much like this color on you, darling, and I don’t want to see it ruined. And if you do get dirty, it’ll be another bath for you.” That was a threat that always seemed to work. Justin hated bathing more than his father once had.

Thom chuckled, “Best listen to her, Justin; your mum is serious when it comes to bathing,” he leaned over and kissed her cheek and before they knew it, it was time to assemble in the yard and greet Divine Victoria.

The yard was richly decorated, Inquisition flags flapped right alongside Chantry flags. Three great big tents had been erected along with a stage for dancing. Josephine had outdone herself—tonight was going to be the largest feast Skyhold had ever seen. Below, Cullen was organizing the troops into two columns; one held the Inquisition flag aloft and the other held the Chantry sun. Polished armor glinted in the morning light, voice rose up in celebration; Genevieve took a deep breath and felt proud of the things she had accomplished.

Josephine and Leliana joined Genevieve and her family on the stone steps. “The mood is infectious,” Leliana commented, and Genevieve had to agree.

Cullen came up the steps after getting his men in order. He was about to say something when the gates creaked and screeched open and the heavy fall of hoof beats fell upon the stone bridge and into the yard. Genevieve recognized Divine Victoria immediately. She wasn’t dressed in the traditional gown and hat of the Divine, but it golden armor, a sword and shield strapped to her back. She expected the escort of Templars and Seekers, what she hadn’t expected was Varric riding beside her like a guest of honor.

A hushed silence came over the yard as Genevieve went forward, took up the hem of her skirt and bowed, Thom and her children followed suit, and the Divine dismounted. It didn’t take very long for Cassandra’s harsh demeanor to change, she smiled and spread her arms as wide as her armor would allow.

“Herald of Andraste—Inquisitor—Genevieve, my friend,” they embraced.

“Your Perfection,” Genevieve bowed again and kissed the Divine’s hand. “May I present my children—Thomas, Cassandra, the twins Natalia and Martin, Justin, and baby Derrek,”

The Divine inspected them in turn. Thomas kissed her hand when she had offered it for a shake, Genevieve couldn’t help but smile. Cassy curtsied—twice, eliciting a laugh from Victoria. “You look like your mother,” she smiled. The Divine went down the line, meeting each of Genevieve’s children in turn, and then greeting Thom and the advisors.

Varric laughed as he came up the steps. “Just _look at them all_ ; and you didn’t name a single one after me,”

“Dorian said the very same thing the last time he visited.” Genevieve chuckled, and vaguely recalled seeing Dorian, although it was a long, long time ago; “Honestly, I’m not sure the world is ready for another Dorian or Varric—one of each will suffice.” It was so easy to fall back into their old ways. Varric was easy to joke with and he always would be.

With the salutation ceremony over, they retired to the keep, where a private breakfast was being served. The Divine took a few minutes to get out of her armor and into a tunic—she still hadn’t put on her hat or gown, she typically saved that for important Chantry business. It was a lovely, if not wild breakfast. They had a lot to catch up on and Cassandra (as she insisted in private) wanted a chance to get to know each child in turn.

As noon came around, Genevieve excused herself; “Some of us need a nap,” she insisted. Although Justin was a toddler and he had been given permission to stay up for the feast, that didn’t exclude him from a nap. And Derrek was probably hungry too.

“Oh let me help,” Cassandra smiled, and held out her arms for the baby. Genevieve couldn’t deny her, although she never would have pegged the Divine as motherly. But she held Derrek carefully, as if she had been caring for children her entire lift.

Their first stop was to tuck Justin into his bed, he complained the whole way, but once his head hit his pillow he was out. Derrek, on the other hand, was hungry. He suckled peacefully while Genevieve and Cassandra chatted.

“They’re beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” Cassandra was saying. “There were times when I forgot what we were fighting for, times when I thought everything was lost. But now I know—we did the right thing,”

Genevieve nodded. “We did,”

“It’s too bad the others can’t be here to celebrate.”

“They visit when they can,” Genevieve smiled; although she would have been able to recall a time when anyone had visited. “So how did Varric end up in your company?”

Cassandra laughed, “He brought me a book and decided it would be best if we traveled together. It wasn’t unpleasant,”

They continued chatting until Derrek had his fill. After a good burp, Genevieve put him down for a nap and ensured Robyn knew to check on him. Cassandra excused herself so that she could go freshen up. Genevieve was thankful for the downtime. With the feast would come speeches, toasting, and a long night of pandering nobles. Lady Clarice was _absolutely_ positive that Thomas would make the perfect husband for her third-cousin’s son’s daughter despite the fact that Thomas was nine and the other a newborn.

While she was contemplating a nap of her own, Mary found her and told her that Ser Marbrand had been asking for her. She panicked momentarily and realized that she hadn’t even noticed the guards who’d been at her side all day. It was as if she was so used to their presence that they had become background objects, hardly worthy of her attention.

“Of course,” she muttered, trying to remember where Ser Marbrand was. In the end she didn’t have too, she followed Mary up the stairs and to the guest quarters. Marbrand’s room was warm and cozy; someone had pulled back the curtains and let the sun in.

Marbrand looked…older. _Much_ older. His hair had gone totally grey and he’d lost most of his muscle mass. He was skinny, worryingly so. He was muttering—no singing to himself, he didn’t notice her until she was sitting on the bed beside him.

A string of drool was trailing down his chin. Genevieve took a handkerchief she always kept in her pocket and dabbed the spit away with a gentle hand. He smiled when their eyes met. “Oh child, you’re sunlight on a cloudy day,”

“Good day to you too, Ser,” she smoothed his white hair and kissed his temple. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he answered. Then he looked at her and frowned. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, child, if the Knight-Captain catches you, it’ll be the rod.”

Genevieve smiled and took his hand in hers. “It’s alright, I’ve been given special permission,” that swayed his fears and he smiled again. “Are you hungry?”

He shook his head weakly. She wasn’t sure he _had_ eaten, but she wasn’t going to force the issue. She would just make sure that something was sent up for him later. He needed help eating now, his hands couldn’t hold steady. Even now, his hand was shaking wildly.

Gently, she smoothed her fingers over the top of his hand. His skin was papery and pale. Blue, broken, and swollen veins crisscrossed up his thin wrist. These hands had once held a mighty sword in her defense, had once held her while she screamed in grief for her brother, had soothed her when she was a frightened child…Now, she cared for him as he once had.

“Shall we read the Chant?” she asked. He was looking up at the ceiling, his attention elsewhere. Sometimes he would fall silent and look at the ceiling for hours, sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night and someone would have to get up her to calm him. The lyrium had eaten away at him, taking many of the things that had made Ser Marbrand, Ser Marbrand.

Genevieve dabbed a little more drool from the corner of his mouth, took a copy of the Chant of Light out of the bedside table drawer and read to him until night fell and it was time for the feast.

With husband and children on one side and the Divine, Chantry attendants, and her advisors on the other, Genevieve stood up, her goblet raised. The tents had been richly decorated with flowers and hanging lanterns. Her chair had been draped in Inquisition colors and the bear fur cloak Thom had given her years ago hung carefully over the arm, there in case she felt a chill.

“Another year,” she started and the tent fell into a jubilant silence. “Of peace and plenty; we celebrate, but we also remember those who gave their lives so we could be here today. We salute the victorious dead and their sacrifice,” there was a somber swallowing of drink and she continued. “Let us stay diligent against all threats against peace and freedom, and pray for another decade of absolute boredom!”

“Here, here!” Thom shouted and the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter only to quiet again when Genevieve asked Cassandra to say grace. The Divine gave a quick grace and then the first of many courses was brought out.

Noble guests required courses, decorum, and dinner was expected to go along at a certain pace. As always in these situations, Genevieve wished she was dinning with her soldiers, who got their meat and potatoes all at once and didn’t need twelve spoons. The first course was a squash soup, a few bites and she pushed it aside in anticipation for the next course.

She spotted Cassy gently stirring her soup and staring at the orange liquid as if she expected a monster to rise from her bowl. “If you don’t like it darling, you don’t have to eat it,” she leaned over and whispered to her.

“Thank you mother,” Cassy said politely, “But Sister Fabia says a proper lady tries everything placed before her, some children don’t get to eat as well as we do,”

Genevieve smiled and watched as Cassy lifted her soup spoon and finally tried the squash. She pushed it aside then, and took a sip from her goblet. Genevieve laughed and advised her daughter that she wouldn’t tell Sister Fabia if she felt dubious about another course.

The night went on with music and dancing, a main course of roasted beef and a dozen desert choices. Still very much a servant of her sweet tooth, Genevieve tried every pastry they brought before her and when Justin crawled into her lap, she fed him little bits of stewed berries and let him nuzzle against her until he fell asleep. Thom offered to take him to bed, but she was feeling tired herself.

It took another twenty minutes to round up the rest of her children and usher them off to bed. Thomas insisted, through yawns, that he was old enough to stay up with his Da, but Genevieve was unmoved. To soften the blow, she gave him the very important and knightly responsibility of escorting his younger siblings to their bedrooms.

After seeing Justin to bed, Genevieve climbed up to her quarters, checked on Baby Derrek; a wet nurse had fed him while she attended the feast. He was sleeping soundly, so she climbed out of her feasting clothes and into a nightgown. The Fade swallowed her up, almost before her head hit her pillow.

Her dreams were filled with blood and pain. She could hear her friends, heard Blackwall calling her name. It was like she stood at the end of a long tunnel and he was on the other side, shouting for her attention. There was a horrible ache in her side and her head felt like it was spinning.

And it felt real. _Too real._ She fought to drag herself up out of the crushing pain. She was drowning in the agony, it filled her mouth and lungs and stomach. The struggle was exhausting her, pulling her back down into the bloody, painful muck.

Then suddenly, she broke free, wrapped up in silks and furs, with Thom beside her. “Are you alright?” he asked, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her close. “You were thrashing,”

She let him cradle her head against his shoulder. “A dream—nightmare.”

“Well, you’re here now,” he whispered and it stuck her as odd, but she ignored it in favor of his gentle embrace. “No one can take you from us,”

XXXX

The morning was crisp and cool, Cassandra was eager to see Thomas and the Martin spar. Genevieve had breakfast set up in the yard; she and Cassandra sat down in foldable camp chairs and watched the two boys hack away with wooden swords on straw-filled dummies. The other children where off at their lessons; Martin and Thomas would join their siblings when they finished with practice.

“Keep that shield up, son,” Thom shouted at Thomas. The boy was having trouble keeping himself balanced with a shield.

“They’ll be skilled warriors one day,” Cassandra commented after a time.

“They had plenty of people teaching them, Thom does most days, but Cullen has been taking more time to train them as well. And Sera always wants to teach them archery when she comes in, Red Jenny keeps her away most of the time though,”

Cassandra chuckled. “Archery is a good skill to know,”

When the boys had been worked into a sweat, Thom released them from practice and they were free to go to lessons. Cassandra complimented the boys before they went up to the keep and Thom promised to see them both up to their lessons—Thomas had a habit of skipping if someone didn’t escort him.

Genevieve took the peace of quiet as a chance to show Cassandra her garden. She had been lovingly tending it for years and now it bloomed brighter and smelled more fragrant than it ever had. She grew every breed of elfroot, blood lotus, dragonthorn, dawn lotus, and every other medicinal plant—enough to keep Skyhold in healing potions and ointments for years.

After touring the garden, they retired to the chapel and prayed together the way they had many years ago. It was serene; no one dared bother the Divine and the Herald of Andraste, especially when at prayer. Well, no one but Justin, who’s lessons were shorter than the rest of his siblings.

Justin wanted to show the Divine his rock collection; he picked them up wherever he went. Genevieve recalled taking him for a walk through the garden once and finding his pockets bulging and weighed down with stones. Cassandra humored him though, and oh’ed and ah’ed as he showed her his favorite rocks.

Lunch rolled around, the children, and her advisors joined them in the great hall below Josephine’s office. After they ate, Cassy recited each of the Divine’s in order, the Ages they had served, and if they had any great accomplishments; she ended with “Divine Victoria, Dragon Age, founder of the Inquisition and Friend to the Herald of Andraste.” There was applause, Cassy curtsied and took her seat as Natalia rose to sing a song.

By the time lunch had been cleared away, Thomas was begging to take his horse for a ride. He was old enough to ride on his own, and Genevieve had gifted him a horse from the stables, a pony bred from Thom’s own war horse, Warden. Thomas loved the horse, but he had asked for a dracolisk like his Mum’s. Finding a female to breed Fiend had been no easy— _and very expensive_ —task, Genevieve was confident that one day Thomas could ride his own dracolisk, but she wasn’t about to let a ten year old near one.

“I’m old enough, Mama, please?” he tried again as they walked down to the stables.

Cassandra laughed; “I still don’t know what your mother sees in those creatures—they’ve become very fashionable in Val Royeaux, no thanks to you. Every day it seems a groom or civilian gets bitten,”

Genevieve laughed; “Well, I never expected that Orlesian Nobles would fixate on that aspect of my character. I figured they would still be digesting the _‘she’s a mage’_ bit.” Thomas tried again, grabbing the hem of her tunic with his fingers.

“Please, Ma?”

“Thomas, we’ve had this talk before; you’re not old enough,”

“Did your mother ever tell you the story of how her dracolisk nearly bit off her hand?” Cassandra chuckled.

“He did not nearly take off my hand! Maker’s Breath, every time someone tells that story it gets bigger and bigger—he breathed fire, he nearly ate me, he ate a stable boy…”

“They breathe _fire?”_ Thomas asked, overly excited. His enthusiasm was a little worrisome and for a moment she contemplated going out and killing all the dragons in Thedas so that he never ever came across one.

“They do not,” Genevieve muttered. She called for Thomas’s horse to be saddled and he looked so disappointed that she nearly couldn’t stand it. “Oh, alright, but you’ll ride with me,” she gave in; she always had trouble denying her children anything. The desire to give them the childhood she never had sometimes became too difficult a hurdle to jump.

“Genevieve, you know you can’t ride,” Thom said; she didn’t remember him being with them on their way down to the stable. “Not in your condition,”

“My condition?” She asked, confused.

“The baby,” he answered.

The memory felt weird when it came back to her. She barely remembered the conversation she’d had yesterday with Vivienne, who she hadn’t seen all day. And the talk she’d had with Varric…about names?

“Fiend is gentle,” she explained, she’d ridden pregnant before, slowly and sidesaddle.

Thom shook his head. “Genevieve, you can’t…”

“Then call up a carriage, I would like to see my son ride his horse,” she looked at Thomas, “I’m sorry, darling, another time though, I promise.”

“You should rest,” he was more insistent. “I don’t want you or the baby to get hurt,”

She nearly rolled her eyes, “You’re being overly cautious; I’ll be fine in the carriage,”

“There will be other times,” Cassandra chimed in her two cents.

“Argh, you’re all insufferable.” Genevieve grumbled and commanded the stable master to fetch the carriage. He hesitated and looked at Thom, so Genevieve added, with more venom then she’d intended. “I’m sorry, is _he_ Inquisitor, or am I?” That got the man moving, and made Thom groan.

“And I’m the insufferable one?” Thom muttered.

That probably would have started a fight, if Mary hadn’t appeared and informed her that Derrek was inconsolable and needed his mother. Genevieve relented, cancelled the order for the carriage, apologized to the stable master for letting her temper get the better of her, insisted that Thomas was to ride his horse, and excused herself.

XXXX

She tried not to be upset when they returned later that night; dinner was a private, quiet affair. When the children were sent to bed, the adults retired to the atrium in the library. It had been converted into a comfortable sitting room, Solas’s original paintings still circled the hall though, they were too beautiful to paint over.

Varric told them a story in between sips of wine, though Genevieve didn’t imbibe, she ensured her friend’s glasses were filled. Vivienne took the last few swallows from a vintage bottle of merlot.

“Looks like we’re out,” Varric chuckled, rosy cheeked from the alcohol.

“I’ll get another bottle, more red?” Genevieve asked, rising from her seat.

Thom stood up. “I’ll find a servant, have them bring up another bottle,”

“It’s late, dear, I’ll get it. No sense in bothering anyone over it.” Genevieve started for the kitchens, Thom followed after her. The kitchens were quiet, the baker was preparing for the morning, but he hardly noticed them as they made their way through the kitchen.

“Genevieve,” Thom snapped as she reached the cellar door. He had grabbed her arm and stopped her from opening it.

“You’re being unusually ridiculous,” Genevieve growled, snatching her arm back. She couldn’t remember a time he had ever grabbed her so roughly.

“The cellars are cold and filled with a half inch of water, remember the leak?” She vaguely remembered something about water seeping into the cellar. But it didn’t feel right—it felt like that had been a long time ago and the problem was fixed.

In fact, she was certain. The idea that there was water in the cellar was untrue.

“Why are you lying to me?” she demanded. “There’s no water in the cellar, that was years ago, when we first came here.”

Thom stopped in his tracks. “I’m not lying,” he insisted. Then when she reached for the door again, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

Nearly tripping on her own feet, Genevieve pulled her arm free of his grasp and fixed him with a glare. “Blackwall,” she growled, low in her throat. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I swear—” she paused. “We have guests, go up there and entertain them. We will talk about this later.”

Then she opened the door and stepped into the dark cellar.

She summoned a wisp of light, but it barely cut through the blackness. The stairs seemed to go on for an eternity, but she finally made it to the bottom. She looked up and hoped to see the door she’d left open. There was nothing but an all-consuming darkness.

Carefully, she called another wisp and sent it shooting up into the dark; she followed it until the light winked out, the shadow swallowing it.

Genevieve didn’t recall the cellar being this dark and this expansive. Still, she was determined to venture forth, no matter how terribly cold and spooky the vault was. She didn’t step in any water; the ground was slick, but nothing more. Carefully, she reached out of the wall and found the stones dry. She let them guide her deeper in the chamber.

She couldn’t remember the cellar being _this_ large. There was supposed to be a torch too, but she hadn’t found it. Her wisp was barely penetrating the dark so she summoned a few more, they didn’t help very much.

The deeper she went in, the darker it seemed. And now she was hearing noises. The drip of water, the ruffle of fabric, the squeak of a mouse. And other things—things that lingered on the edge of hearing, sounds that could only be imagined. But Genevieve knew she wasn’t imagining them, they were _too real._ They were the sounds that had echoed through her dreams the night before.

Her side was beginning to hurt, to burn. She pulled up the hem of her tunic and saw the wretched wound in her side.

She had been stabbed. Someone had knitted the wound with fire. Her skin was blistering red; she could feel the heat emanating from it. In the cold, it almost steamed.

Suddenly, Genevieve was smothered up in darkness. Her wisps died against her will, leaving her blinded. She could hear the sound of feet skittering against stone, heard the vicious cackle of darkspawn, heard her friends screaming her name.

“Maker, protect me,” she whispered and held up her hand, summoning a burst of flame. The flamed cracked and lit up the area around her. She could see the dull, glowing eyes of darkspawn, saw that it wasn’t water on the floor—it was blood.

Then it hit her—hard—so hard it nearly knocked her off her feet. _This isn’t real._ Panicked enveloped her. Her reasonable-self tried to tell her to run forward into the dark, to stretch the demon thin and weaken it; but her fear won out and she ran for the stairs.

She rushed back the way she came, found the stairs and climbed them two at a time. The door had been closed behind her, and the jam stuck, forcing her to slam her shoulder against it. Finally, it gave way and she fell to the kitchen floor.

Thom stood, looking down at her. He did not offer help, nor show concern. “I told you not to go down there,” he said, Genevieve forced herself onto her feet and felt a fool for not following her own advice.

“You’re not Blackwall—or Thom, or whoever,” she growled.

“Why didn’t you listen?” He demanded. _“Why didn’t you listen to me?”_

Things were slowly coming into focus and she was starting to remember things. Bits and pieces, the fear demon…the desire demon… the faith spirit. _Andraste forgive me, I fell right into it._ Quickly, Genevieve pushed past Thom and made for the main hall. She had to find the source of these illusions, she needed to stretch the beast thin and force its hand.  

It was as if the tone of the world had changed. Her friends, servants, soldiers, and even her own children were gathering in the hall, they watched her as she passed. It was eerily quiet, _disturbingly_ _so._ Their eyes were blank and no one spoke a word.

As she passed by her children, they all looked up at her, their eyes shinny with tears in one last ditch effort to stop her. But she had to remind herself that they weren’t real. None of this was _real._ She looked away and made to move past them. But Justin stepped in front of her, tears in his eyes.

“Mama,” the boy whispered and reached up with a small hand.

She didn’t meet his hand. Instead, fighting tears, she stepped away from him and continued down the hall. _Not real, not real, he is not real._

“Mama,” 

“Stop, you are _not_ real.” She muttered, she reached the door, grabbed the ornate handle.

“So you would abandon us? Abandon your children? Your husband? Your friends?” she did not look at Blackwall, she couldn’t. Thinking about him, their children— _this life_ —it was too much. She wanted it. She wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything before. It was sweet and soft and peaceful. There was no more fighting, no more darkspawn, just peace and quiet and the life she had only ever dreamed about.

“I can’t abandon what never was,” she sighed and forced open the door.

There was nothing outside but raw, green Fade. Genevieve closed the door and turned around. This was a demon’s lair, not the well-meaning Faith Spirit’s gift.

“There never was a Faith Spirit, was there?” she asked and received no answer. “And I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.” Still no answer. “Just come out, I know what you are, demon,”

“Demon?” Blackwall stepped forward. “No need for such a negative term,” his voice was slow and slurred, even and calm. He droned, like he was trying to put her to sleep. “I made this place just for you, filled it with everything you could want, why would you want to leave?”

“You’re a sloth demon,” Genevieve could feel a weakness in her limbs, the demon had been rooting around in her head for Maker knew how long, it knew all the tricks and the best way to make her complacent. She had to fight it.

She yawned, Blackwall smiled. “You’re tired, little bird, let’s go upstairs and get some rest and we can pretend this never happened,”

“No.” She barked. “Show me what you really look like!”

“Now, now, no need for yelling,”

“I see through your tricks, demon, release me or fight me,” Genevieve had to stand firm; she needed to get out of this fever dream.

Blackwall laughed and the rest of the hall followed after. The hall changed, now it was surreal, the hall elongated, the windows lengthened, the laughter warped into a confusing mess of noise. Genevieve slammed her hands against her ears and tried to block it out, but it was in her bones, her skull. The demon had had hold of her from the beginning; it had had plenty of time to figure her out, to learn her weaknesses and her strengths.

_But it must be stretched thin; keeping up an illusion like this must have drained it._ She would have to move quickly. The demon’s influence was strong around her; it was making her sleepy, or at least making her feel like she was. It took every remaining ounce of strength she had to strike.

The demon didn’t seem to expect her attack, it roared as fire burst around him. His roar morphed into screams; most of the illusions disappeared—Cassandra, Varric, Vivienne, her advisors and soldiers and servants. She struck Blackwall’s look alike again, this time with lightning. She was going to finish this, going to destroy the demon and get out of this nightmare.

Then she was blindsided by Cassy. The girl hit her so hard, Genevieve fell to the ground, the other children followed. They grabbed at her clothes, clawed at her eyes, ripped her hair up in clumps.

It was too much.

_It’s the demon, it’s the demon, they are not real_ , she tried to tell herself. But when she reached out to strike she saw Justin’s blue eyes full of tears. He had told her his dream—how she set them on fire. It was coming true.

_But it wasn’t real!_ The rational side of herself screamed. _None of this is real!_

Genevieve made herself fling up a barrier. The children slammed their fists against the barrier, their voice fluctuating in a horrid wail. Blackwall was standing off to the side, the demon hadn’t changed back into its true form. It meant to torment her, make her kill them all if she wanted to get out.

“I can put it back,” the demon was saying. “I can make it like this never happened. Rest, little bird, rest.”

Forcing herself onto her feet, Genevieve watched as he begged her to stop…and it was tempting, so very tempting. But his promises were through grit teeth and his skin was falling off in melted, gory masses. He was no Blackwall—it wasn’t even Thom Rainer—and these children were illusions meant to hurt her.

This was a torture chamber, and she was thinking about staying.

_I am not the kind of person who gets to have those things she’s dream of_ , finally, truly admitting it, hurt. It hurt more than the time she’d broken her hand in the Emerald Graves, more than the injuries she’d earned fighting Corypheus… but it was enough to remind her that she was in the Waking World, and there were people there who needed her.

This time, she attacked and she didn’t let up. The sloth demon roared in anger now and screamed something about her being more trouble than she was worth.

“Damn right,” Genevieve growled and flung up a barrage of energy bolts. The demon ran at her, he was losing strength and couldn’t keep up his illusions. The children now looked like warped monsters with claws and jagged teeth.

The Blackwall look-alike tackled her, knocking the wind out of her and driving her head against the hard stone. The children were disappearing one by one, as the demon reclaimed his power. Genevieve called for a rock, it flung across the room and threw the demon off her, bits of stone and blood and bone flew into the air.

_Burn you son of a bitch,_ Genevieve laid down a fire trap, then struck with lighting. The demon got its feet back and growled at her like some wild beast. It charged again, setting off the fire traps. The fire burst around them, the demon screamed in agony, fell to the ground, giving Genevieve the chance to finish it.

But the demon rose to its feet, skin melted, clothes burned to cinders. “You bitch!” it roared and charged again. “I’ll just kill you and take your corpse!”

Genevieve dodged, but the demon grabbed her arm and flung her back. She hit the ground, cracking her skull against the stone. Then the demon kicked her, screaming expletives. He picked her up by the collar of her shirt and flung her against the wall.

“The transition could have been peaceful, you would never have known. I’ve been digging around in your subconscious for days now…I was so close.” Its voice was a slow, languid hiss, the mark of a sloth demon. “But now, you’ll suffer, yes. Suffer.”

She was dizzy and tired, but she could sense the demon drawing closer. She raised her hand and called forth a bolt of lightning. She poured every last ounce of power in the attack, let it take the last store of mana she had.

_I might just kill us both_ , she thought, as the bolt arched through the short space between them, caught the demon in the chest. The creature screamed, its illusion finally melting off. Now it stood in its true form, a floating mass of ugly grey skin with chains around its chest. _“Whore!”_ the demon shrieked and lunged. Genevieve lashed out with her foot as it drew closer, the lightning still coursing through its body. The demon fell back, weak…loosing.

Genevieve rose to her feet as quickly as she could and struck the final blow. It was over before she even knew it.

Breathing heavily, she listened for a moment before making any move. There were snores around her. Varric and the Prince were lying nearby, sleeping. She heard the scuffle of boots against stone, a muffled cough, and the hushed voices of Lady Hawke and the Queen.

“If we don’t get out of here soon,” Cassandra’s voice was easy to discern in the quiet. “We’re going to die here,”

“We may have to come back the way we came,”

Genevieve felt tears come to her eyes when she heard his voice. She made herself get to her elbows, her bones were stiff and the movement nearly exhausted her. “Blackwall,” she hissed through dried, cracked lips. And he was there before her elbows gave out in exhaustion. “I need water,” she muttered next, “and food, and Maker’s breath someone bring me my bag, I need something for the pain,”

Blackwall smiled and signaled Cassandra. “And you’ll have it; you’ll have anything you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget, I always try to respond to all comments! Thanks for reading!


	29. Chapter XXIX: Dorian

_**Chapter XXIX – Dorian** _

She was named _the Peacock_. Upon seeing her well painted bow and decorative lanterns, Dorian came up with multiple comebacks to what he could only assume would be the Inquisitor’s witty remark. But, _“Well, I’ll be, a peacock riding on a peacock,”_ never came, and he had no use for clever retorts. He felt the Inquisitor shaped void then; it was almost too much for him to stand. He needed to fill the silence with noise.

“Well, she’s no pleasure barge,” he muttered, dismounting from his horse and handing the reins to one of the Inquisition sailors, “But as long as she gets us from point A to point B without sinking, I think she’ll do.”

“But is she defensible?” The Iron Bull asked.

“Just because she’s pretty, don’t mean she doesn’t have teeth.” The ship’s captain barked; he was a salty, old looking warrior; when he spoke Dorian could see a wad of tobacco in his mouth and he made a show of spitting over the side of the boat. He was the kind of man that Dorian would expect to be the captain of a ship. Maybe not a ship this beautiful—but a sailor nonetheless.

Bull laughed, and gently elbowed Dorian in the ribs. “Hear that, it’s got teeth,”

“Well,” Dorian chuckled. “the number of teeth are not indicative of the bite.”

“Argh,” Sera muttered behind them. “If you love-birdies is done, I want to get a move on.”

“Just another hour, my lady,” the captain bowed as he personally took the reins of Sera’s horse. “We have more supplies to load.”

“Eh, I’m not your lady,” she muttered.

“Krem,” Bull signaled his Chargers to attention. “Take Sera, Cole and the boys to the tavern, be back in thirty,”

“Aye, Chief,” Krem saluted and ushered their party towards a nearby bar.

Bull sighed and looked over the boat again. “Any sign of Marbrand and Harding?”

“They should have gotten here first,” Dorian noted. The captain was overseeing the horses, barking orders at his man as they guided the mounts into the bowels of the ship. Dorian’s handsome, sleek roan was fighting every step of the way, as if the very idea of being jammed into the cargo hold was offensive to her.

Dorian could relate. But, he was also the kind of man who went to the ends of the earth for the people he cared about, and no matter how many horrid jokes the Inquisitor made, no matter how much that great hairy lummox didn’t wash, and no matter how suspicious of him Cassandra was, Dorian felt a certain level of affection for each of them. He wasn’t going to let them languish and die in the middle of nowhere—oh no, not on his watch.

He had to tell himself these things; the idea that—no matter how much he was certain they weren’t dead—they were dead, filled him _with_ _so much dread…_

_But they aren’t dead, just in trouble,_ he reminded himself, _in fact, trouble is normal—trouble is the Inquisition’s constant state of being. I should be worried if they were out of trouble._ He smiled at his own cleverness and decided to ask the captain for any word on Ser Marbrand and Scout Harding. 

“Dropped their things off this morning,” the captain answered. “Said they had businesses in town,”

Dorian sighed; Val Royeaux was too big to search, so he would just have to wait for the two to return. The port had a particularly unpleasant smell to it, but he was loath to join the others at the tavern—the smell wafting out the open door was worse than the smell of fish and city waste. He found a place to sit down on the ship deck and watched the Inquisition sailors enter and exit the cargo hold.

Bull had gone to join his Chargers at the bar, leaving Dorian alone. He dug around in his bags until he found the book he’d been slowly, but surely plodding through. It was dry reading, a Southern history of the Glory Age. But, he was determined to read it, if only to brag that he had.

He was another chapter into the dull book when Harding and Marbrand arrived. Dorian put his book up and smiled. “Ah, Scout Harding, I feared we might have had to leave without you,”

The dwarf laughed. “Captain knows not to leave without us,”

“So find anything interesting at the bazaar?”

“Nothing particularly interesting; there is some mumbling among the Grand Cathedral, it seems they’re worried about the Divine and Grand Cleric Mavis,”

“Any particular reason why?” Dorian asked, although Chantry gossip hardly interested him. But he liked to make polite conversation with Harding.

“Nothing clear,” Harding sighed. “Like I said, mumblings,” she excused herself and went to check on the animals.

Ser Marbrand nodded in greeting. The Inquisitor’s silent shadow was looking strangely beat down, although Dorian supposed that sadness afflicted those shadows too long separated from their casters. He was worried about his liege-lady the same way Dorian was. Perhaps even a bit more, Marbrand had practically raised the Inquisitor, if Dorian’s memory served.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Ser,” Dorian tried to assure him. “They’re fine—all of them,” he added quickly. Sometimes he felt, if he kept saying it, that it would be true.

Marbrand nodded, “Yes, my lord,” then, “Excuse me, I must attend Scout Harding,” and then he left and Dorian was left to his boredom.

They were underway faster than he thought they’d be. The wind was fresh and strong, it would carry them up to Cumberland faster than their feet. Dorian figured they would keep the coastline in sight through the journey, but the captain assured him that the currents out in open water would carry them faster.

While the upper deck of _the Peacock_ was comfortable, the sleeping quarters left something to be desired. Dorian was not used to sleeping in the cramped underbelly ofa ship, in a fabric hammock, surrounded by thirty other people. The rocking of the ship didn’t help him either, or the creaking of the timbers, or the sound of snoring, or the scratchy blanket—just about everything was uncomfortable.

He tumbled out of bed— _hammock_ —and hit the damp floorboards with an ugly smack. No one stirred when he hit the floor. He got up, rubbing his arm where he’d hit the floor, and decided to the take a walk on the upper deck. The fresh air would clear his head.

Before heading up, he checked on his friends. Cole was sitting in his bunk… _sleeping,_ he thought, _maybe_. Bull was snoring soundly, one arm thrown over his chest, the other hanging over the edge of his hammock. He found Sera and Harding; Sera on the top bunk, Harding the lower. Marbrand’s bunk was empty though, and Dorian was partly glad to not be the only one having trouble sleeping.

Carefully, Dorian made his way topside. The lamps were burning low, just enough light for those on duty to see the ship beneath their feet. In the gloom, he spotted the Templar. It was rare to see Ser Marbrand out of his armor; he wore a purple tunic and his sword belted around his waist.

Dorian was about to greet him when he spotted a glint of red in the Templar’s hands. He held up a small vial, it glittered red and gave off a soft glow. Dorian knew what it was immediately; it was how they controlled southern mages—it was what they used to track them. There was only one person who’s blood that could be.

“Does she know you have her phylactery?”

The knight jumped and almost lost the vial to the water below. He turned while shoving the phylactery into the breast pocket of his tunic. “My lord,” he muttered, “forgive me, I didn’t know you were there…I’m just watching the waves.”

“Ah, trying to divert the subject with polite musings—my dear cousin must have learned it from you,” Dorian sighed and leaned against the ship railing. “It doesn’t work on me,” he added with a soft chuckle.

Marbrand was speechless so Dorian continued. “So, either she knows you have her phylactery or she doesn’t; in the case of the ladder, I am sure she asked you to hold on to it and your reasoning’s are in good faith. Of the former, I fear your actions appear a bit sinister,”

“No.” Marbrand grunted. Dorian rolled his eyes, _no wonder she’s in love with that great hairy lummox, these two are cut of the same cloth_. A smirk came to his lips. _Now now,_ he chided himself, _I’m not supposed to diagnose friends, no matter how glaring the parental issues._

“Do you mean no; it’s not sinister. Or no; _she doesn’t know?_ ” Dorian asked. He kept his tone even; he was certain that Marbrand’s actions were not out of some ulterior motive. But he had to know, if only because those damn phylacteries gave him the heebie-jeebies. 

“She doesn’t know.” Marbrand finally spat it out. “I’ve been holding on to it since we left for the Conclave.”

Dorian nodded slowly. “And how do you think our Inquisitor would react if she found out you have it?”

Marbrand took a deep breath and Dorian began to wonder if he was going to have to drag the answer out of him. But the Templar pulled the vial out of his pocket and faced the open sea. “See how it glows?” he asked, Dorian nodded. “As long as it’s still glowing, I know she’s alive.”

“And it tracks her,” Dorian added. He knew it was how Templars hunted down mages, it would glow brighter the closer it came to the body who’s blood had supplied the magic. This was the kind of blood magic the Chantry allowed—the kind that allowed them to pull their leash tight.

“I usually keep it in my quarters; but I thought…that maybe we might need it.”

“You could have shown it to Cullen, eased his fears. Eased everyone’s fears.” Dorian sighed. There was no denying that the glowing vial, despite the unease it created, offered him the promise of hope. The Inquisitor was alive so long as the phylactery glowed.

“It has been a comfort when she goes away on campaign. I cannot be there to protect her, but I can know if she’s dead or alive.” He put the vial back into his pocket. “I never shared it with anyone because I was afraid of how they might react. The Commander may have ordered me to be rid of it, the Spymaster may have wanted to study it, and the mages would have wanted me dead for having it. They might think I use it to control her; but that’s not what it’s for.” Dorian watched quietly as the old Templar’s warrior veneer fell away. “I was a crook, a bandit before the Templars saved me, took me in, brought order to my life…but her Worship—she brought me peace.”

“It seems she has that effect,” Dorian smiled remembering how she urged him to speak to his father, to vent his feelings, to give himself closure. There was something about the Inquisitor that made the word a little a better, that made men think they were better than they were.

“The mages scared me at first, the Chantry teaches us to fear them. But then this little girl ran through the hallway, scared of summer storm, ran into me and I didn’t see a mage. I didn’t see the monster the Chantry told us they were. She was just a child with tears in her eyes and fear in her heart. She was scared of herself the same way I was scared of her.”

Dorian had no idea what it was like to grow up in a circle. Fear was a big part of it and the Inquisitor only ever elected to tell certain parts of her time there, usually only the happy things. But Dorian could tell, there was other stories besides the ones were she comically set something on fire, or of her brother’s bravery, or Marbrand’s kindness. She didn’t talk about the abuses; only mentioned getting the rod once and how much _gentler_ Ostwick was compared to other circles. Always with a slight infection of gentler, as if she was speaking in shades of sarcasm. Dorian figured he would never know what passed for punishment in the Ostwick circle and how much of it Marbrand hadn’t been able to protect her from.

“I wasn’t supposed to take the phylacteries when we left for the Conclave—but then the blood mage attacked and I didn’t want to leave it there for someone to use,” Marbrand continued. “You can tell anyone you want to, my lord, but I will not hand it over.”

Dorian nodded. He wasn’t going to tell anyone. There was no need to steal a glimmer of hope from a man who—in all essence—was searching for his daughter. And besides, seeing it glow was comforting. It meant they were looking for a live person instead of a body.

“I think you should keep it,” Dorian crossed his arms and stepped away from the cool sea spray. “But, when we find her, it might be a good idea to let her know you still have it. It is her blood after all.”

The knight nodded. “Aye; thank you, my lord.” He excused himself and went to bed. Dorian followed a little while after.

XXXX

Even after his chat with Ser Marbrand, Dorian had had a rough time sleeping and he woke feeling miserable. He stumbled to the upper deck where breakfast was being served by the ship’s surly cook. Dorian wasn’t expecting anything too fancy and he wasn’t disappointed. Eggs were too fragile to carry on a ship, so it was porridge and bacon—at least there was wine to wash it down with.

The wind was strong on their backs, filling the sails and giving them good speed. The day was clear and the air wasn’t too cold, although Dorian did don one of his warmer woolen cloaks. Dorian spent most of the day lounging around in the sun, listening to the sound of the waves, and reading. They passed by other ships, most of them merchants flying Orlesian colors. Cole fed the seabirds with a bit of leftover bread and Sera had found her way up the mast. Ser Marbrand sat quietly by himself though, probably mulling over what he was going to say to the Inquisitor.

Bull, finally bored with sparring, came to sit by Dorian at the stern near the wheel. The Captain was taking the Peacock by some rocks and didn’t trust anyone but himself to handle it.

“Hey, Kadan,” Bull greeted and sat on the steps, his bulk taking up most of the stairwell. “What’s the plan when we put into Cumberland?”

Dorian neatly marked his book with a ribbon. “We’ll stay the night in Cumberland,” he hadn’t given very much thought to what they would do, but he knew for sure that he needed a bedroom to himself for a night at the very least. And it would give them a chance to ask around, see if the Inquisitor and her companions had passed through or if any travelers had seen them on the road. “We should see if we can find any gossip—you know, have you seen a short woman riding a reptilian horse? Probably in the company of an aggressively hairy man and a beardless dwarf? I’m sure someone has seen them.”

“Don’t forget about the Seeker,” Bull cracked a smile.

Dorian chuckled. “Also, have you seen the Divine? We seem to have lost her.” then he added, rather cheekily, “Perhaps we should have her face painted on milk pails?”

Bull laughed, “And when you’re done making jokes, what do we do when we leave Cumberland?”

“I suppose we take the Imperial Highway,” Dorian thought about the Inquisitor’s phylactery. He knew if he swore the Iron Bull to silence, that he would keep his mouth shut. Now that he knew they had the vial, they could essentially track the Inquisitor much the same way Templars tracked wayward mages. It was a little too close to tyranny for Dorian’s taste, but there was that old adage— _desperate times call for desperate measures._

“Don’t worry,” Dorian muttered, “We’ll find them,” 

Bull regarded him with slight suspicion. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes, I just know,” then, he added, “as that beardless dwarf says, _never bet against the hero.”_

Bull laughed and got up. “Alright, you’re the boss till we find the boss.” 

That night a squall hit them and it rained for four hours. With all the bodies cramped into the lower decks and the rain water seeping into the wood, Dorian was sweating from the humidity and spent the night tossing and turning as much as his hammock would allow. The rain continued in the morning as a heavy drizzle, but it was enough to keep Dorian below and out of the water.

Sera spent the whole day sulking too. She was still angry and the wind was too high and the rain too dangerous for anyone to climb the mast. So she played dice with Scout Harding while Dorian tried to read by candlelight. It was a miserable day and another miserable night.

But the next day, the rain had cleared and the coast was in their sights. Dorian felt a rush of energy, he would be glad to have a private room in some comfortable inn— _and a bath_ , he added, _after all, the Inquisition is footing the bill._

Bored of his book, Dorian allowed the Captain to prattle on about _the Peacock’s_ history. “She was a merchant vessel out of Jadar before the Breach, after the whole business with Divine Justinia, Maker rest her soul, I sighed on with the Inquisition, promised them a speedy merchant ship.” He coughed and spat tobacco juice over the side, Dorian tried to ignore how disgusting it was. “Soon I was hauling soldiers from all over Thedas. Fitted her with some defenses, iron banded the mast, and asked for a fighting crew—now she’s a war cog. She can take a blow,” he pointed to the bow of the ship where the decorative peacock carved of wood and painted brightly sat on a long wood and iron spike. “And she can hand them out too. I’ve sunk a red Templar ship and sent one into retreat—like I said my lord, she’s pretty, but she’s got teeth.” 

Dorian nodded and was about to turn away when he noticed another sail on the horizon. It was gaining a lot of speed and coming up on them fast. “I don’t recognize those colors,” he muttered.

“Ship off port to stern, captain!” the sailor, clinging to the mast roared, a spyglass in hand.

“What are her colors?”

“She’s flying black,” the sailor answered.

“Fuck,” the Captain cursed and Dorian felt the deck move out from under him at the Captain suddenly turned the ship towards the other. “All hands to battle stations!”

Dorian looked back over at the ship and then back at the captain. “What’s happening?” He demanded, then saw Bull and his Chargers emerge from below decks. Men and women in Inquisition livery were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Swords were left in their sheaths in favor of pikes, bows, and spears.

“What’s going on?” Bull bellowed from the deck below.

“Pirates!” the captain roared.

Harding came up from the cargo bay; “Did he just say pirates?”

Bull raised a fist in celebration; _“Oh yeah!”_ he let out a bellowing laugh and turned to the Chargers. “Alright boys, you heard the captain, get your weapons! Horns up!” his war cry was echoed and the Chargers dispersed.

Dorian took hold of the rail and looked down at Bull. “You’re more excited about the prospect of fighting pirates than you should be,” he spotted Cole and Sera peak up from the lower deck. “Cole, get my staff and get up here, we’re in for a fight!”

“I’ve fought pirates before,” Bull laughed a gleeful smile on his face. “But never on an actual boat, this is new territory for me,” Krem brought up Bull’s lethal two-handed ax. Dorian left the Captain to the helm and joined his friends on the lower deck.

“Here,” Cole brought him his staff. It was a gift from the Inquisitor; a straight oaken staff banded in volcanic arum, a jeweled spear on one end, and a red stone for the head. It was a weapon worthy of a Tevinter Magister, it made Dorian proud to carry such a weapon. The jewels alone were worth a pretty penny and might make a magister jealous at a mere altus.

Ser Marbrand had only managed to get on half his armor and he kept his sword at his hip in favor of a pike. He came to stand by Dorian.

“What’s the battle plan?” the knight asked.

“Don’t die is usually my plan; you know, easy, simple to remember,”

Marbrand nodded and took a small vial of lyrium from his pocket. Dorian watched as he gulped it down greedily, wiped his mouth and then threw the empty vial over the side of the boat. “We rout these fools and get on our way; nothing will stop me from finding the Herald.”

Dorian tapped the spearhead lightly into the wood of the deck. “I find your determination inspiring,” then he called up to the captain. “How do we fight them?”

The captain laughed. “We’re the Inquisition; we’re going to ram them,”

“Of course we are,” Dorian sighed.

The ship lurched as the wind filled its sails. “Brace yourselves!” the captain cried. Dorian wasted no time taking hold of the mast, as did all the other sailors.

They were rushing towards the enemy ship, the iron tip on the bow glinted in the sun. The enemy seemed to have no idea what was about to happen to them, men and women dressed in mismatching bits of armor and mail. Dorian spotted elves, dwarves, and humans, but their captain was a qunari; a fierce looking brute with broken horns.

“That one’s mine!” Bull roared, hoisting his ax over his head. They were drawing closer, Dorian slammed his eyes shut and gripped the mast. His body jerked as the ships smashed into each other, he heard the sound of wood splitting and splintering.

“In the name of the Herald of Andraste, throw down your arms!” the Captain screamed, although Dorian knew his order would be ignored. “For the Inquisition!” he roared and Dorian forced himself to let go of the mast and face the enemy.

His first step was to throw up a barrier around the warriors nearest him. It caught Harding and Marbrand, Cole, Sera, and a few other soldiers. But Bull was out of range, his ax already bloody. Quickly, Dorian threw out a horror spell, caught a pirate in the face and she swung her daggers wide, nearly striking her own crewmates before falling over the side.

The two ships were stuck together, their sails and ropes tangled. The pirate ship had been dealt a nasty blow by _the Peacock._ But now that they had lost the wind and were tangled with the other ship, they were dead in the water. The pirates seemed to know their ship was mortally wounded; they jumped the gap between the boats, weapons drawn and Dorian would have sworn some were frothing at the mouth.

“Archers, fire!” the captain’s voice broke over the din of battle. At his command, a hail of arrows hit the enemy deck, striking enemy bodies and knocking some into the sea. Dorian raised his staff and threw a walking bomb curse at one of the pirates. The man jumped when the spell hit him, and turned towards Dorian, his sword raised. But before he could reach him, the spell exploded, spewing gore in all directions and spreading panic to his brethren.

Above him, Sera and Harding were sitting astride the mast, firing arrows and trading jokes. Dorian had lost sight of Cole and Bull; he spotted Marbrand beating a pirate with a mailed fist and demanding another to surrender in the name of the Inquisitor. A dwarf carrying twin axes was stalking towards the Templar, as he battled sword to sword with another pirate. Dorian romanced a spirit from the dead and ordered to target the dwarf. The pirate screamed as the spirit overtook him, left him bleeding out on the deck, and sprung onto another enemy.

“Chargers! Horns up!” Bull roared, he was covered in gore from head to toe. The close quarters combat was leaving everyone, including Dorian, (who prided himself on winning battles without a drop of gore on his clothes), covered in gore and sweat. “Get ‘em off the ship!”

The enemy captain had boarded _the Peacock_. Two Inquisition sailors fell before the enemy qunari’s blade. In hopes of holding him back, Dorian threw a horror spell at the captain. The qunari waved his arms around as if he was trying to swat away some invisible force.

“Bull!” Dorian roared, catching his attention and pointing at the enemy captain. “Now might be a good time to—” he didn’t get to finish his sentence. An elven pirate lunged for him, daggers slashing back and forth so quickly Dorian barely had time to dodge.

Raising his staff, Dorian called lighting from the sky and struck the pirate. The elf screamed bloody-murder, but kept coming. Dorian cursed as the elf made one last, desperate thrust, and held up the spear end of his staff, impaling his assailant through the chest. With a foot, Dorian freed the blade of his staff and wiped it clean on the pirate’s shirt.

As Dorian turned to survey the rest of the battle, he felt’s Cole’s presence beside him, then felt the _woosh_ of air as the boy’s twin daggers came down and struck a pirate who had nearly taken Dorian’s ankles out from under him. “He almost got you,” Cole said pensively, and then added. “We’re winning,” Dorian couldn’t disagree with that.

The pirates had to know they were losing. Those few who were left had thrown down their weapons and submitted to the iron chains of the Inquisition. But the pirate captain had yet to submit. The Chargers had made a tight circle around the pirate captain and Bull. Krem was leading the Chargers in a belligerent war chant as the two qunari circled around each other, their weapons at the ready.

Dorian did his best to appear unconcerned, but sentimentality had been a contagious plague passed on by the Inquisitor to which Dorian had found there was no cure.

The captain pressed the attack first. After nearly two years of knowing him and fighting alongside him, Dorian thought he knew Bull’s fighting style pretty well. He put off an air of wild, reckless combat, but that was part of his skillset. His recklessness terrified his enemies in much the same way his name, _The Iron Bull_ ; put forth the air of mindless weapon. But Bull was no mindless weapon—he was a well-honed, highly trained, tactically sound mindless weapon. He knew when to go on the defensive and when to go into offensive.

Right now, Bull was playing defense. Hunched with his battle ax held close and across his chest, he circled carefully. Let the enemy captain swing high with his blade, took the blow on the haft of his ax, and pushed the pirate back with a heavy grunt. The pirate fell back, spat a Qunlat curse, and struck again. This time Bull stepped aside, the blade missed him and found the deck. Dorian could see the smirk on Bull’s face as he slammed the flat of his ax against the pirate’s back.

“Finish him off, Iron Bull!” one of the Inquisition sailors shouted, they cheered as Bull pushed the pirate so hard, he hit the deck with a wet smack. Bull held the blade of his ax over the qunari; “Ebasit kata itwa-ost.”

“Ebost, Tal-Vashoth!” the qunari answered knocking Bull’s ax away. The pirate got to his feet and raised his sword high. The Chargers stepped back, making room for what was sure to be a bloody end. Dorian turned away and tried to ignore the sicken crunch of broken bones and the wet plop of entrails. He turned back after a moment of gaining his composure and saw that Bull had effectively sliced the qunari in half.

“Tal-Vashoth,” Bull laughed and cleaned his blade on the cotton jerkin the qunari had been wearing. “I know you are, but what am I?”

“Tal-Vashoth?” Cole answered and Bull laughed all the more. Dorian tried his best to step over the corpses on his way to pat Bull on the back.

“Well done,” Dorian averted his eyes as the Inquisition threw the corpses over onto the other boat. He didn’t mind blood and gore, but there was just something horrifying about the sound of meat slapping against wooden planks.

“Get the corpses over the side and cut us loose!” the captain ordered. It didn’t take long for the sailors to finish up with their work and once the Peacock was cut loose from the other ship, Dorian, with Sera and Harding, lit the other ship aflame. Dorian watched the smoking hulk drift listlessly in the water until nightfall, when the ocean swallowed her up.

_The Peacock_ limped into port two days later. The captain informed them that he’d been given orders to stay close to Cumberland and not to return to Val Royeaux without the Inquisitor aboard.

“Thanks, Cap’,” Harding saluted before she mounted her horse. “We should find an inn,” she said to Dorian as they left the docks.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Dorian smiled. Cumberland was the last major Orlesian city this far north. It was a major port; there were inns, taverns, hotels, and shops of all kinds. It neither rivaled Val Royeaux or Minranthos, but it was still a splendid in its own way. Their group split up; the Chargers to schmooze around the local bars, Ser Marbrand to the local chantries, and Harding to secure their lodgings while Dorian, Bull, Sera, and Cole walked around the open air markets and see if there was any news that might be gleaned from the locals.

Dorian and Cole stopped by a stall where a plump woman was selling oranges and other citruses. Dorian bought a few oranges in hopes that they might loosen the woman’s tongue. She didn’t know anything about the Inquisitor, only that Inquisition troops were awful polite and once had bought a crate of lemons from her and didn’t even haggle the price…and Dorian smiled and nodded, thanked for the fruit, and left her.

Another seller was unwilling to trust Dorian claiming that the Inquisition would never let a  _vint_ into their ranks. Dorian didn’t bother buying anything from him, only showed him the very fancy looking piece of parchment that Leliana had given him that authorized him as an agent of the Inquisition. The man scrutinized the wax seals for nearly a minute before finally offering that he’d heard a rumor about a slain dragon somewhere up north.

Dorian smirked and looked at Cole. “Well,” he said, leaving the merchant’s stall. “we may have ourselves a lead.”

They found Bull and Sera and shared the news. Bull seemed rather put out that he’d missed a dragon fight, but Dorian was all too glad to not have been there—if—the Inquisitor had been involved with it. She was a bit of a dragon lure, it seemed, or at the very least, she had a knack for running into them.

“The Boss is bite sized,” Bull explained when Sera mumbled something about dragons following them around.

“Yes,” Dorian chuckled; he spotted Harding in the crowd and followed after her. “the perfect size for snacking,” Cole muttered some alliteration bullshit, Dorian had trained himself to ignore most of it.

Once Harding had been informed, she told them where she’d booked a room and left them to find Marbrand. Dorian was glad for a nice hot meal and an actual bed. He knew once they left Cumberland, the comfort would cease, so he soaked it up as best he could.

_The wilds await,_ he sighed, looking out the window. Before going to bed, he decided he was a very good friend, not everyone would go gallivanting around the countryside in hopes of finding his wayward friends… _family_ , he reminded himself, _these fools are family._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any of my readers who may be French, you are in my thoughts and prayers.


	30. Chapter XXX: Cassandra

**Chapter XXX – Cassandra**

Cassandra hadn’t held anyone in a long time, but now that the Inquisitor was awake—was better—she found herself just simply holding Genevieve to her chest. At least when, Blackwall wasn’t holding her. Those two had spent hours in silence, the Inquisitor situated in his arms, her hands clutched in his. He always stayed near, even after Cassandra has promised to take the utmost care of her. He slept nearby even now, only a few feet away. With Blackwall asleep, that meant Cassandra had her chance. She needed to hold Genevieve, needed to comfort her as an older sister might sooth her younger sibling in the grip of illness.

There were amends to make as well; they’d been mumbling apologies to each other over the past few days. Or at least it _seemed_ like days. The regrets came in simple statements with few words. It was as if they were airing out every grievance they’d ever had with each other, starting with the fight near Cumberland and ending with Cassandra saying; “I’m sorry I clapped you in irons after the Conclave.” Genevieve insisted she didn’t need an apology for that, but finally accepted after Cassandra insisted.

Along with the apologies, Genevieve had mentioned bits and pieces of what befell her in the Fade; with meager prods, she eventually opened up and explained it all. They’d been whispering on the edge of hearing since before they left Skyhold. The demons had been waiting for the right time to strike and had found it when she’d been injured. Everyone listened, even the Queen and Warden Oghren, when she told them just how close to being possessed she had come. But she had broken free in the end, and Cassandra was grateful for that. Together they had prayed thanksgiving to the Maker.

Cassandra was leaning against the stone wall of the cavern while Genevieve leaned against her chest. She was wearing one of Blackwall’s spare tunics; many of her clothes had been ruined to make bandages or pillows. She still wasn’t eating very much, but she ate more than broth, and she was able to give Varric and Lady Hawke more detailed instructions on how to make potions. Now they kept her pain at bay, she slept and woke at regular intervals, she was eating, and most importantly; her fever was broken.

What they really needed to do was get out of the cavern they had locked themselves into. The Queen and Lady Hawke spent hours at a time looking over the map and examining the walls of all three chambers. Usually their investigations ended in a shouting match, they would split to different ends of the main cavern each in a tantrum, and then, after cooling off, began the process over again.

They were arguing now, their voices echoing off the walls; waking Blackwall and making the Prince pace restlessly back and forth. Varric was tending their little fire; they were running out of old wooden furniture to burn. Soon they would be in darkness.

And worse. They’d be out of food.

The Inquisitor didn’t know this. It was discussed only when she slept. Cassandra knew that sooner or later Genevieve was going to find out; but for now, she wanted Genevieve to rest, thinking they had everything in hand. Although the yelling wasn’t helping.

“Sebastian,” Genevieve whispered, it was the first time she had spoken in some time. Her voice was weak and hoarse from sheer exhaustion. “Tell them to quit that Maker-damned arguing and bring me the map,”

The Prince nodded, he spoke softly and respectfully, a trait Cassandra admired in him. “Of course, your Worship,” he rounded the hall and went to fetch his wife and the Queen.

Blackwall rose to his feet, threw his sleeping fur over his shoulder and came to kneel where Cassandra and the Inquisitor were sitting. He put his hand to Genevieve’s forehead before taking the fur and throwing it over her legs. Normally, the Inquisitor might complain about being fussed over, but Cassandra and Blackwall had been fretting over her and not heard a single complaint.

“Will you eat something?” Cassandra asked shifting carefully so that the Inquisitor was leaning against the stone. Blackwall took her place and the Inquisitor settled into his embrace.

“Tea, I think, or something stronger” Genevieve answered, her voice a little gravelly. “I want to look over the map first; then maybe I’ll eat.”

Cassandra didn’t argue. Varric helped her find leaves for tea while she boiled some hot water. They had another pot of stew going; the rest of the dried vegetables and beef had been thrown in and they were down to the last of the salt pork, barley, and hardtack; that would only last them a few more days. Cassandra gave their supper a stir while Varric added a spoonful of tea leaves to the water on the fire.

The Queen and Lady Hawke came back down the hall; Lady Hawke presented the map and then plopped down on the Inquisitor’s other side. “See here, your Worship, we—”

“Sky,” the Prince muttered.

“Give her some peace,” Hawke nodded. “You’re right, you’re right, forgive me, your Worship” and she backed up, giving the Inquisitor space. More importantly, Cassandra noticed, she shut up.

Cassandra poured the tea into a tin cup and set it down before Genevieve. “Thank you,” the Inquisitor mumbled as she looked over the map. “We’re here?” she asked placing a finger in a square area marked with a dwarven rune.

“Yes, your Worshipfulness,” Lady Hawke answered and pointed to the other two chambers. “This is the hallway where we get our water, and this is the bedroom.”

“The hallway is collapsed and flooded, that’s how we’re getting our water,” The Inquisitor ticked these things off as if she was making a checklist. “There’s no river on the map; how did that hall collapse and flood?”

The Queen offered her explanation; “These maps predate the Fourth Blight; it’s possible that an underground river was diverted. The Blight altered the land above and below back then,”

“But we’re not positive it’s a river?”

“Yes,” Lady Hawke answered. “That’s what we’ve been arguing about. I say we break through the rubble and climb our way out.”

“Or we drown.” The Queen grunted.

“If there was a torrential river behind that debris we would be drowned already,” Hawke growled seemingly ready to take up their shouting match once again. Hawke and Queen Ana had been butting heads this entire journey and Cassandra could sympathize, but the Inquisitor needed action, not words. Their quarrelling was beginning to feel like a routine, a trivial thing meant only to fill silence. A folly meant to make them feel as if they were _doing something._

“You don’t know how much of that hall is collapsed; breaking through may jeopardize the entire cavern,” Cassandra rolled her eyes as the Queen rebutted, the argument would begin anew. 

“We’re getting air from somewhere—it has to be through that tunnel—”

“You’ll kill us all!”

“ _Oh_ because you’ve done an excellent job of not doing that, _have you?”_

_“Enough.”_ Cassandra smirked; even while half-dead the Inquisitor could take command of a room. The Queen, clearly unused to being spoken to in the manor, still managed to silence. She turned to face Genevieve as if she thought she was about to take a scolding. “You two prattling on isn’t going to help us,” She took up her tin cup, blew into the liquid, and took a sip of tea. Beside her, Blackwall arranged the fur again as if to remind her not to exert herself.

“Inquisitor, I can find a way out of here, I just need more time,” The Queen spoke softly…respectfully. She knew she walked on a trail of eggshells, submitting to the Inquisitor’s authority and mercy was the best way to stay alive. Cassandra liked to see the Queen brought low by her own doing, Lady Hawke hadn’t been incorrect; the Inquisitor was the only person who might keep her alive.

_“We’re out of time,”_ Genevieve took another sip of tea. She was calm, she was not Genevieve Trevelyan right now; she was Inquisitor Trevelyan. A true leader. This was the reason why Cassandra had voted her for the office, there was something about her that made people stop and listen, something that made people want to obey. “I know we’re almost out of food, you’ve all been trying to hide things from me, but just because I look asleep doesn’t mean I am. The circle gave me ample time to practice that trick.”

Cassandra frowned. So she knew, of course she knew. All their care was for naught. “We didn’t tell you because we—”

“I know, Cass,” Genevieve sighed. “It’s alright,” she finished her tea and Cassandra made her another cup. She stared intently at the map, finished her second cup, and asked for a third. They gathered around her, eager to hear what she might say. Cassandra wanted nothing more than to follow an order—any order—she didn’t care. She wanted action, this cave had grown tiresome and they needed to get Genevieve to a healer; to someone who could actually look her over, maybe even heal her scar.

After she finished her third cup of tea, the Inquisitor asked for something stronger and Blackwall insisted she have something to eat too.

Warden Oghren donated his last skin of sour wine, which Genevieve sipped in between spoonfuls of stew. Finally, she cleared her throat, finished her cup of wine, and Cassandra knew she had reached a decision. There would be no questioning this one; Genevieve Trevelyan had slipped past death enough times—Cassandra wasn’t a betting woman, but she liked their odds.

“We’re going to get out here, one way or another.” The Inquisitor began; she had more confidence in her voice, as if the wine had empowered her. “Lady Hawke is right, we’re getting our air from somewhere; but your Majesty isn’t wrong either.”

“So what do we do?” Varric asked, he spooned a little bit more stew into her bowl.

“Someone will open the doors there,” she pointed to the metal and stone doors the Queen had shut when they entered the place. “While at the same time, I will break through the stone using the rest of the Antivan fire,”

Blackwall immediately protested. “Genevieve, you nearly died…if you don’t have the strength…”

The Inquisitor fixed him with a look; the kind she reserved for those who doubted her. Although, Cassandra could see it was colored with the softness of a lover. “We need to get out of here,” Genevieve whispered. “I _need_ to get out of here.” After a few seconds, Blackwall nodded and pressed a kiss to her neck.

“It might work,” Cassandra offered, glancing away as they kissed. She had been less than supportive for the past few months, she had to make up for what she’d said and done. Although, truthfully, the plan had merit. If there was a rushing river behind that rubble then by making sure those doors were open might give them a chance to escape or at the very least, not drown as the cavern filled with water.

“There are darkspawn behind the door, little mage,” Warden Oghren grunted; “they know we’re trapped in here, you know.”

“What better way to flush them out?” Lady Hawke laughed. “I hope there’s a river back there, might wash away the stench of darkspawn.”

“How much rope do we have?” The Inquisitor asked. Varric and the Prince gathered it up the rope and anything else that might act as a tether. “We’ll leash ourselves so we don’t get washed away,”

“It’s so crazy, it has to work,” Varric chimed in after it had been silent for too long. Cassandra withheld a nod, but she agreed—they’d had stupider ideas before. But the Prince and the Queen needed more convincing it seemed, “Come on Choir-boy,” Varric held up the end of a rope and laughed, “It’ll be just like Kirkwall, living on the edge of a knife, surviving by the seat of our wit!”

“It could be fun, husband,” Lady Hawke gave Varric’s back a sturdy pat.

“We both know your definition of fun and my definition of fun are very different, wife.” The Prince sighed and placed his hand on Lady Hawke’s shoulder. “But it might be our only chance,”

“That’s Choir-boy speak for _‘count me in,’”_ Varric chuckled.

There hadn’t been much laughing, Varric’s sudden jolly mood was infectious. Cassandra smiled and gave the Inquisitor a firm; “I’m in,”

Warden Oghren jumped up from where he’d been sitting at the other side of the cavern, nursing a wineskin. “I’d rather take a chance than sit another minute in this thunder-humping cave.” But the Queen wasn’t convinced. She turned away to stare at the doors, arms crossed over her filthy yellow and white tunic. “Oh come on, Cousland, this is just like the crazy shit we used to do,”

“I know there’s a passage I just need—”

“Well, we don’t have time,” the dwarf roared. “You said we were going to get out of here and we are—one way or another.”

The Queen turned back to face them. Cassandra could see the desperate look of defeat in her eyes. A moment passed and she finally nodded. “On the condition that we leave behind any inessentials; Weisshaupt is near, we can get provisions from them.”

Cassandra looked to Genevieve for their answer. The Inquisitor sighed. “Fair enough,” she muttered. “But we’re not wasting anything, we eat and drink what’s left, we leave the pots and such—my herbs and tools are necessary and nonnegotiable, we fill half the skins with fresh water and leave the rest, dump any extra armor and clothes.”

The Queen agreed.

“So a last supper, eh?” Varric laughed, “Hawke and I’ll get dinner going, and someone should tell a damn good story,”

“I’ve got one,” Blackwall said. “But pass the wine first,” he sounded better, Cassandra noted. She felt better too, having a plan of action was the one thing she needed—it felt like they were really going to accomplish something. It was enough to give her hope.

Cassandra took a seat near the Inquisitor and smiled. It was nice to have a plan. She hadn’t realized how much she relied on the Inquisitor’s leadership until it wasn’t there. Genevieve was young, the youngest of them, she had grown up in the shelter of the circle; but when needed, she stepped up. For most of her life, Cassandra had looked to the Divine for order, but now she was Divine and the Inquisitor was her dearest friend and sister.

_I’m still afraid to lead on my own_ , she thought. That was why she had asked Genevieve to be her Right Hand and to take the seat of Grand Enchanter even though she knew that Madame de Fer would throw a fit.

“Can I talk to you?” Cassandra whispered, she didn’t want to interrupt Blackwall’s story.

Genevieve nodded, excused them, and got to her feet. Her legs were shaky and she took Cassandra’s hand when offered. The Inquisitor wore nothing but spare clothing: Blackwall’s tunic, a pair of leggings from Lady Hawke, three pairs of socks to keep her feet warm, and her own cloak, a ruined and bloody mess (because no one had had the heart to cut up the velvet and cloth of silver).

Cassandra led them into one of the back chambers where Genevieve leaned against the wall and caught her breath. If they had to make a run for it, Cassandra worried how well the Inquisitor would be able to do. Just the shortest of walks around the cavern winded her; she still had a lot of recovery to do.

“Are you cold?” Cassandra asked.

The Inquisitor smiled. “I’m fine, what did you want to talk about?”

Cassandra took Genevieve’s hands in hers. “I know now might not be the best time to discuss it,” she paused, nervous to bring it up. Cassandra wasn’t a fool; there was a part of her that knew by offering the Inquisitor such positions of power might overtax her. Genevieve was a good leader, she was easy to follow, easy to love, Andraste and the Maker had chosen well. “But…I need to know if there might be a chance—if you might accept my offer; I don’t know if I can be Divine without you,”

There was no telling what went through the Inquisitor’s mind, she made a slow nod, freed her hands from Cassandra and folded Cassandra’s hands between her own. “Oh Cass,”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever choice you make I will stand with you; you _must_ know that.”

“I know,” the Inquisitor’s voice cracked, she sounded tired again. “Cassandra, I love you—you know I do—I want you to be Divine because I know you can do it. You have been a Seeker, you’ve traveled the world for the Chantry, but me…I have never known any life but the Circle and now the Inquisition. I know that I will never get to have all the things I’ve dream of, and that’s alright, the Maker’s given me much more besides. But you’re asking me to sign away the rest of my life.”

Cassandra closed her eyes and nodded. It was not what she wanted to hear. “I’m not making you join the Chantry—you don’t even have to be a lay sister. I just need your help,”

“Cass, I know you don’t like him, but I _love_ Blackwall and I want to be with him as much as I can. You know, I’ve never had a dog? Or walked along the beach without armor on? Or seen an opera in Val Royeaux? Every city I visit is in a military capacity, Maker, Cass—I want to have a family— something they told me I could never have.”

It was not what she wanted to hear. But she understood.

Cassandra freed her hands from Genevieve’s and pulled her into an embrace. The Inquisitor was a head shorter and fit nicely under her chin. “I know,” she whispered, smoothing Genevieve’s hair. “I understand,”

“I’m not saying no; but right now, we need to get out of this cave and get home. Once there, I want some time. Maybe you can try being Divine without me, for a while. See where you’re at.”

Cassandra released her and nodded. She couldn’t argue, the Inquisitor’s reasoning was sound. They both should get a chance to adjust. Even if Cassandra still held lingering misgivings about Blackwall, the Inquisitor loved him and she, at the very least, deserved a chance to just…have that—to be in love.

Once, Cassandra had been in love; he was taken from her, just like so many others. Before the Conclave, Cassandra might have gone off with him, lived someplace quiet. She had never dreamed of a house and children before, but she sometimes found her thoughts lingering there if only because any future dreams of a family and home had been taken from her before she had had a chance to dream them up. She could see how a mage like the Inquisitor, who had been told since childhood that she could never have a family of her own, might dream of a husband and children.

Cassandra had no right to take those things away from her.

“I understand,” Cassandra kissed the top of the Inquisitor’s head the same way Anthony had all those years ago. There was a burst of laughter from the main chamber and Cassandra smiled. “Sounds like they’re having fun in there, we should join them.”

“Good idea, I want another drink,” Genevieve smirked. Arm in arm, they joined their friends.

XXXX

The fire was crackling merrily; Lady Hawke and Varric had stood by their word and cooked up the rest of their rations, and Warden Oghren grudgingly donated the rest of his wine and dwarven ale for their little celebration. And celebration was the word for it; Cassandra hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. Dwarven ale had a way of seeping into the bones and sapping reason from the mind. They ate, they drank (save the Prince) and they told funny stories. This might very well be their last night on earth—they had to make it count.

The Queen, her cheeks red with drink, was recounting the tale of how she found the Temple of Sacred Ashes. “…Leliana and I went through the cavern, clearing out every trap—and I warned that man—” she laughed and took another swig of ale. “ _Warned him_ to keep his eyes to the ground, my King has this uncanny knack for stepping right on traps—nearly broke his damn ankle, if not for his armor. I swear to Maker and Bride, he’d still do it if we didn’t have guards following us around and clearing the way on our hunts,”

“Can you imagine that, the King of Ferelden stepping into a bear trap?” Lady Hawke chortled.

“I don’t need to, I’ve seen it.” They all joined into the laughter, the Queen passed the skin she’d been nursing over to Varric.

Cassandra took a piece of crispy hardtack and used it to sop up the salt pork grease on her plate. Genevieve offered her the wineskin she and Blackwall had been sharing between themselves. She took a swallowed and passed it to Lady Hawke.

“I’ve got a question,” Lady Hawke took a sip of wine and pointed at Genevieve and Blackwall. “How did you two happen?”

“What’d mean?” the Inquisitor slurred, she wasn’t used to so much strong drink and in her weakened state… Cassandra thought she probably should have kept her from drinking, but that wouldn’t have been fair.

“I mean, no offense, sweetling—but _Serah Blackwall_ is…a bit older.”

Genevieve and Blackwall laughed together and after a second Cassandra joined them. It was well known that Blackwall was a decade her elder, but no one had bothered to question it, nor did they really care. Despite Lady Hawke’s intrusive question, the two seemed unperturbed.

“Aren’t you the one who married a chaste brother in the chantry?” the Inquisitor quipped.

“Not for much longer, I imagine,” Lady Hawke snickered.

“Skylar,” the Prince groaned and Cassandra watched as his cheeks bloomed with red embarrassment.

“Relax, love, no one is going to remember this conversation in the morning,”

“I will,” the Prince sighed and tried to hide his humiliation but taking a bite of hardtack.

“Wait,” Warden Oghren sauntered up to the fire, he’d drunk the most of them and yet seemed unaffected. “You mean to say you haven’t bedded her yet? _Are you crazy?”_

“The Chantry was busy with the death of the Divine; I didn’t have time to submit my request to be absolved of my vows.” Cassandra tried not to laugh as the Prince turned an even darker shade of red. 

“Why, if I had this night-haired fox in my bed, I’d never leave!” The Warden laughed deep and unashamed. “Come on, what’d ya say Hawke? I bet you’ve never had a dwarf before, I might even shave my beard,”

“Oghren, you have a wife and child,” the Queen said harshly, but her heart wasn’t in it and a moment later everyone was laughing.

But it was enough to give Cassandra an idea. An idea that could only come from a mind swimming in alcohol. They might just die tomorrow and it didn’t seem right to leave all these loose ends untied. _By Andraste’s holy tits_ , she was the Divine, elected by the Revered Mothers under the authority of the Maker himself. She had the right to absolve men of their vows—the right to officiate a marriage. If the Inquisitor’s plan failed them, then Cassandra wanted her friends reach the Maker’s side fulfilled in some way. _In any way._

Forcing herself up to her feet, Cassandra raised her arms and called for silence. “Prince Sebastian Vael,” she began, her voice booming off the chamber walls. “Prince Vael of Starkhaven, I, Divine Victoria hereby—Varric are you writing this down?” 

The dwarf jumped up and rifled through his bag for a sheaf of paper, ink, and a quill. She waited until he was settled before continuing. “I,” she started again. “Hereby, absolve, Brother Sebastian Vael of all his vow sworn unto the Chantry, before the Maker and his Bride, so that he might take a worldly wife...” she wasn’t sure what else to add, next, so she filled in the blanks with. “And may you walk in the light,”

The chamber burst into cheers and Lady Hawke threw herself into her husband’s arms. The Prince was looking embarrassed, but he made no rebuke. When his wife handed him a wineskin, he took a deep breath, praised Andraste and took a short pull. He coughed and choked on the strong dwarven ale amidst a great gust of jovial laughter.

“I’m a little rusty,” he muttered, and handed the wineskin back to his wife.

“What a good way to end the night, your Perfection,” the Inquisitor chuckled and with Blackwall’s help, stood up. “But I think I am going to bed—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Cassandra said, putting her hand out and stopping her. She smirked and felt a wave of heat come over her. This was going to be like some foolish, romantic, horribly glorious chapter from a _Swords and Shield’s_ novel. “I’m not done—not until I’ve married you and Blackwall.” They all laughed, laughed so hard Cassandra was certain the darkspawn could hear them, maybe even anyone who walked the earth above them, _maybe even the Maker._

“I’m serious, I’m serious,” she insisted, the drink made her tongue feel heavy and swollen. 

“Sure, Cass,” Genevieve laughed and tried to get past her but Cassandra stopped them again.

“No, I mean it, Ser Blackwall—the ring, the one you found.”

Blackwall’s boisterous laugher ended and he cocked his head to the side. “What?” he asked, he wasn’t nearly as drunk as Cassandra.

“What ring?” the Inquisitor asked, the room had fallen silent.

_So she doesn’t remember?_ Cassandra thought, so when she had woken up during her fever, she hadn’t truly been all there. Quickly, Cassandra tried to think of what to say next, but Blackwall beat her to it.

“Eh…the Seeker must mean this one,” he pulled the little stone ring from the pocket of his tunic. “You were sick when I showed it to you,” he added sheepishly.

Gently, with great reverence, the Inquisitor took the ring from his hand and examined it. She smiled and flung her arms around Blackwall’s neck. “I know we said we’d marry,” Blackwall was whispering. “But in this cave?”

“We’ve done worse things in a cave,” the Inquisitor muttered back.

Cassandra smiled and bid the other to rise. “I’m going to marry you two, whether you like it or not.”

“Cassandra, you don’t…”

“I want to,” she wasn’t feeling the alcohol anymore—it was something else now. Pride? Love? Cassandra couldn’t place it. Carefully, she made them stand arm’s length apart, took Blackwall’s right hand and the Inquisitor’s left, passed the ring to the Prince and told Varric to start a new piece of paper and for the others to sign as witnesses.

“I, Divine Victoria, with the authority of the Maker and Holy Andraste…” she stuttered, Revered Mothers usually officiated marriage ceremonies, she was flying blind. “Will unite these two…in the bonds of sacred marriage.”

“Josephine is going to kill us,” the Inquisitor murmured. She seemed to have sobered up, Blackwall too.

“Josephine doesn’t have to know,” Blackwall whispered back.

Cassandra placed Genevieve’s hand in Blackwall’s, but did not release them. “Do you have vows?”

_“Vows?_ I didn’t know I was getting married this morning.” The Inquisitor smirked. She wasn’t taking it as seriously as Cassandra had hoped, so Cassandra turned to Blackwall.

“Uh…” Blackwall cleared his throat. “Genevieve Trevelyan, you are…eh…you are—” he swallowed and licked his lips, “you are a better person than I could ever hope to be. You are a gentle born lady and I a…a low born soldier. I am nothing without you; you make me a better man.” Cassandra smiled. With each word, Genevieve’s smirk faded and seemed to come to terms with what was happening. She looked up at Cassandra, then back to Blackwall. “When you smile, it’s like the sun has risen, and when you laugh I have to laugh too.” He smiled under his unkempt beard. “I knew I wanted to be with you the moment I laid eyes on you, and never in my wildest dreams did I ever think you would forgive me for what I had done. But, _you did_. And even though it’s an undeserved title, I want nothing more than to be your husband.”

Stymied, the Inquisitor opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Blackwall, I—I…” she was speechless; Cassandra felt another smile come to her lips. _Yes, just like one of Varric’s books._

Finally, Genevieve took Blackwall’s other hand. “One time,” she began. “I woke in the middle of the night and I panicked because you weren’t there—not because you’d left me—” she quickly corrected, “but, because you’d gone to the privy. You were only gone for a minute, less probably, but I was so afraid because I thought it had all been a dream and that I had woken up in my bedroom in Ostwick. That I was back in the Circle, that you were some Fade illusion.” She paused, looked down at her feet as if she was nervous about what she would say next. Cassandra gave her hand a squeeze to encourage her. “Sometimes,” Genevieve looked back up at Blackwall. “I still think I might wake up. _Maker forgive me,_ if this really is a dream then I choose to _stay_. The very thought of losing you is the one thing that scares me most in this world.” Cassandra saw the tears roll down the Inquisitor’s cheek and she thought maybe she might cry too, until the Inquisitor smiled and the bride and groom looked at her, expecting her to finish the ceremony. 

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Then, do you, by the Maker and Holy Andraste, take this woman to be your wife?”

“Yes.”

“And do you, by the Maker and Holy Andraste, take this man to be your husband?”

_“Yes.”_

Cassandra took the ring from the Prince and handed it to Blackwall. She was trying to remember a wedding she’d witnessed as a child. She recalled there was an exchange or rings, and then the bride and groom threw their cloaks over each other’s shoulders as a promise to protect one another. But Blackwall didn’t have a cloak, she had Lady Hawke take one from his bag, an ugly black old thing crusted in blood and mud. But it would work; Lady Hawke clasped it around Blackwall’s neck and retreated. 

“You may give her the ring,” Cassandra said and Blackwall took the Inquisitor’s left hand and slipped the ring on her middle finger. He kissed the top of her hand and might have continued if Cassandra hadn’t said; “Now exchange cloaks.”

Genevieve unclasped her cloak and shrugged it off her shoulders. Blackwall threw his over her shoulders, clasped it with the simple bone button, and then bowed slightly so Genevieve could give him hers. She fastened the silver eye-and-sword brooch and Cassandra declared them husband and wife in the name of the Maker and his Bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to share with your friends! Comments, kudos, always appreciated! 
> 
> Check out The Dissonant Sisters on tumblr.


	31. Chapter XXXI: the Inquisitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this being a little late, I've been..ahem...spending time in Boston with my buddy MacCready.

_**Chapter XXXI – the Inquisitor** _

Imagination had afflicted Genevieve at a young age, even while she dwelled in the Circle and even after being explicitly told that she would never have a wedding. As a child, she had dreamed up what her wedding day would be like: in the springtime when all her favorite flowers were in bloom in an open garden with roses lining the ceremony like guards on duty; her groom was an Orlesian Prince with a handsome mask (it was before she learned what true wickedness lurked behind an Orlesian masquerade), and she would wear a dress and cloak patterned in Trevelyan colors because back then she had once thought her parents might come to their senses and bring her home.

But that day never came, and she let the dream remain a dream.

Then the world fell apart and she met Blackwall. And for a little while, she let herself taste that old dream. Only instead of a bustling affair, it was a small ceremony in Skyhold’s garden and Blackwall had taken the prince’s place. It had been sweet— _achingly sweet_ , to think that she might just have it.

She didn’t get it.

But still, as she and Blackwall were ushered, with their bedding and clothes, into the quiet side chamber by a giggling Lady Hawke and Varric; she got a momentary taste of that honeyed reverie. They were in the Deep Roads, on the brink of the Void, but she was—by all intents and purposes—a married woman now.

Or at least she hoped she was. Andrastian weddings had rules; usually there was a period of counseling, a Revered Mother officiated, and there were papers to sign and a special Mass—she had no trousseau, and she had always thought she would say a certain part of the Chant in her vows because Blackwall had always reminded her of it, and she hadn’t had a Maid of Honor, or been escorted—Cullen would have escorted her to the altar, he had always been like a brother too her—and Cassandra would have been her Maid, expect she officiated—drunk…but she wasn’t sure how much that mattered…

Her trail of thought ended when Hawke and Varric left them alone in the dark. She was acutely aware of Blackwall— _her husband’s_ —presence beside her.

Genevieve called up a wisp that bathed their faces in a soft yellow glow. Blackwall was looking at her as if nothing had happened, like this was just any old day. _Just another adventure with the Inquisitor,_ Genevieve thought, almost bitterly. How was it he was so calm and she was falling further and further into panic? He had that annoying way of masking his emotions under a veneer of a warrior’s cool.

“Are you going to say something?” Blackwall muttered. He threw his bedding down and then took hers and arranged them so they could lie beside each other.

She wasn’t sure she was going to say anything. Then, after giving too much thought to it, she said; “They know what we’re doing in here,”

“Sleeping?” he teased.

“Funny,” she grumbled and felt heat rise up from the tips of her toes to her cheeks because he still had that effect on her.

Blackwall took off the cloak she had given him and folded it up for a pillow. Then, he turned back to her and carefully removed the cloak from her shoulders. They locked eyes and Genevieve felt a smile come to her lips as she leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

The cloak slipped from his grasp as he reached up to cup her face. It felt like an eternity since she had kissed him. The sloth demon had done its best to imitate him, but it was a weak comparison. The real Blackwall smelled of musk, his beard tickled her face, and he was always warm, radiating heat like a furnace. The demon had spent enough time playing in her head to learn his mannerisms, the way he looked, and how he moved—but the more she thought about it, the more foolish she felt for falling for its trick.

Blackwall left her lips to trail kisses down her neckline. The tunic he had given her was so large that when he moved the fabric aside, she was nearly half out of it. His fingers traced down the line of her neck as he kissed her shoulder. Carefully, he went back to her lips and, forgetting himself pulled her to him.

Genevieve bit back a yelp, clutched her side, and Blackwall let her go immediately, his hands up. She could sense how tense he was; “Maker’s balls, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead.

“It’s still tender,” she hissed, riding out the sear of pain. She tried to reassure him and hoped they might get back to kissing _and more,_ but he picked up her cloak and folded it.

“You should rest,” he took her hand and guided her to where he’d made their bed.

She didn’t disagree, but neither did she agree. Carefully, after the scar had quit tugging, she sat down. She wrapped herself in a fur and waited patiently for him to dress down and settle into bed.

Once he was comfortable, she leaned over to kiss him. Blackwall gave her a chaste kiss—nothing like what she was hoping for—and then turned away and prepped his makeshift pillow.

“Am I missing something?” Genevieve asked, “Or aren’t we supposed to consummate this…whatever it is?”

Blackwall laughed deep in his chest; “Eager, then?” she didn’t answer. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he added quietly.

“I don’t think you could if you tried,”

“I did…once,”

She gasped, hurt and a little offended. “You’ll not bring _that_ up— _not on my wedding night.”_ She growled. Finding out he was really Thom Rainer, murderer and liar, was leading contender for the worst day of her life. But she had forgiven him, they’d learned each other again; now he was an Inquisition man. Anyone who joined the Inquisition, who risked their lives for Thedas, deserved the grace of having their slate wiped clean. _Whatever we were before, we are now the Inquisition_ , she’d once said.

“I’m sorry,” he sounded regretful. Then after a while; “I…argh, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I,” she moved in beside him and she placed her head on his shoulder. It didn’t take long for him to put his arm around her; but he didn’t pull her into his lap as she had hoped. Instead, he lay down and brought her with him.

She really was disappointed when she heard his breath even out and his body relax after a few minutes. Something from the sloth demon lingered in her; a fear that maybe this wasn’t real. She gently laid her hand on her burn and hissed when the pain washed over her. Despite how much he was right—he would hurt her if they made love—she kept thinking that it would wash the sloth demon’s nightmare away.

Down the hall, she heard her friends burst into raucous laughter. She’d learned from Josephine that having one last hurrah before a dangerous mission was a good way to prepare for it. They would drink and eat and be merry for one last night, and then once they sobered up and slept their hangovers off, they would be ready to face almost certain doom. Her idea was stupid _, she knew that_. There was a very good chance that they might all drown, or worse; get torn apart by darkspawn. But she couldn’t let the others think that she doubted her own plan. They had to get out of here—she had to get out of here, her plan was the best option; they would get out, _one way or another._

This place was eating them from the inside out. They weren’t going to be the same after this; especially her. Cassandra and Varric had done their best to clean up the bloodstains on the cavern floor, but they were still there, taunting her, even when Varric covered them with his sleeping furs. All her blood…soaked right into the stone. This place had nearly become her tomb. 

Ser Marbrand had once told her that he worried about her because _“youth seldom dwell on their own mortality.”_ But the Deep Roads had brought her face to face with her own death and now the thought wouldn’t leave her. What was worse, _Maker forbid it_ , if she didn’t die right away, she might become the vessel of demons. That was the worst thought of all. Her companions knew about her brush the sloth demon; she hadn’t held any of her story back. But they didn’t know about the depths of her terror. _A demon. Had almost. Possessed her._

That one thought ran through her head when she woke and when she slept. There was no way to keep herself out of the Fade when she dreamt, so she cut herself off. Refusing any interactions with spirits in her dreams—and there were spirits _, so many spirits_ , because she was in the Deep Roads, and the Veil was thin where so much death hung like cobwebs. As a Seeker, Cassandra might have been able to tell how thin the Veil was; but the others had no inkling. Many of her friends still thought of the Veil as something that separated two worlds from another—and in a way it did—but as a mage, Genevieve knew that the Waking World and the Fade occupied the same space.

The fear, the hatred, the anger, the sorrow; it overflowed the Deep Roads like a wineskin about to burst. It was like drowning; to the point that she didn’t know how much of the fear and anger was hers or the Roads.

She couldn’t imagine what it was like to be the Queen—or any Grey Warden for that matter—to walk around like this all the time. To have a piece of the Deep Roads inside of you no matter where you went. Genevieve knew she would never be able to live like that—it would be like being cold all the time, standing near a fire, only to find that the fire had no warmth.

_The Deep Roads are not a conquerable enemy_ , she thought. Sweat was beading on her brow despite the cold. _I can’t beat them with courage or cunning. We can only survive, and we aren’t going to survive much longer._

By now, the other hall had quieted; Genevieve thought she could hear Varric’s snores; but the chambers were so quiet, there was no real telling what the sound was or if it even was a sound and not imagination. She had only been conscious for a few days—at least she thought it was a few days, if anything the Deep Roads were a time vortex—but in those few days she had come to fear the quiet. Her heart flew into palpitations and a sickening dread filled her from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. She clenched her fist and tried to remember that Blackwall was right beside her; but his arm was lax around her shoulders—he was asleep and she lingered in the Waking World, more afraid of the dark then she had ever been in her life.

There were no darkspawn in the cavern with them, but all of a sudden; she could smell their fetid bodies, hear their shuffling feet and their vicious cackling laugh...

Quickly, she threw up a wisp of light. It woke Blackwall, and as much as he needed his own rest, she was glad he was awake.

“What is it?” he grumbled, his hand moved for his sword, but it had been left, along with his armor, in the other chamber. After a moment, he turned to look at her, he smoothed his hand across her forehead, she was sweating and now he knew. “Can’t sleep?”

Genevieve bit her lip. “Yeah, I want to get out of here.”

“We will,” he promised. “Do you want me to make you some tea?”

Tea sounded nice, but the thought of him leaving her made her heart pound. “No, I’m fine,” she whispered.

He could tell something was wrong; she was preparing herself to rebuff. She promised herself she would talk to him, just, not until they escaped the Roads. But, he seemed to sense that she didn’t want to talk, so he smiled and took her left hand in his. She had completely forgotten about the ring he’d given her and that they were married. It was comforting.

“So…” he paused, his voice echoed down through the cavern, they waited for a second to see if he had woken anyone. But the silence persisted. “So,” this time he whispered. “What’s it like being a married woman?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t even know if we really are, I’m pretty sure that the officiate isn’t supposed to be drunk when she…officiates.”

Blackwall nodded and chuckled. “Still, humor me,”

She was still trying to shake off the dread, so she refused to answer until she was nested safely in his arms. Blackwall had a way of making her feel as if the whole world was melted away; she would always be safe and warm in his arms—no matter what the world threw at them.

“I love you, married or not, I love you,” she whispered. “Being married doesn’t make anything different; it just means I’ve sworn before Maker and men to be with you and only you.”

She felt his nod as his beard brushed up against her ear. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, little bird,” he kissed her cheek. “And what of children?”

For some reason, that made her nervous. “We’re not even out of this cave and you’re asking about children?”

“Yes. I want to know,” he chuckled.

“You first, serah—” she had always called him serah, but it didn’t fit the way it used to. It was a pet name in much the same way _little bird_ was her pet name. “I mean—you first, husband.”

“Fair,” he muttered. “Alright; one of each, at least. A brave lad, a pretty girl. And a dog, it’s a crime for a child to grow up without a faithful mutt by his side. Now you.”

Even though she had resigned herself to a certain fate, it was cathartic to think about these things. Besides, if they died tomorrow their dreams and musings would do no harm. “Hum…more than two,” she muttered. “Less than ten,”

“Maker’s balls, what?”

“You don’t want a big family?” She asked. She had always wanted a big one.

“You want three to nine children?” he laughed great bellowing laugh. It rumbled through his chest and into her bones, filling her with mirth. She’d always found it hard to resist his boisterous glee.

“Well, when you say it like that,” she laughed along with him. “Six then, how’s that?” either he didn’t remember or didn’t care that that was the same number the demon had tempted her with. She couldn’t let that creature ruin all her dreams though; it had, after all, pulled that right out of her head.

“Six then,” he said, it seemed they were in agreement.

They fell back onto their sleeping pallets. Genevieve felt sure the dread had abated, for now at least. She snuffed her spell wisp and let the dark settle over them. Blackwall kept his arms around her; he kept her warm with his almost insatiable body heat. His hand moved up and down the length of her arm and she traced circles on his chest.

Blackwall’s body rumbled with a deep breath. “I almost lost you,” he muttered.

There was nothing she could say. He had almost lost her. She had almost lost herself—that demon would have taken everything from her if she hadn’t snapped out of it.

He continued; “Cassandra gave you a bottle of lyrium—she was desperate, we all were—and I told them; _‘if she doesn’t make it, we’re going to open the doors and I’m going to fight and give the rest of you a chance to escape, Genevieve Trevelyan might be dead, but she will not die here alone.’”_ Genevieve felt a shiver pass through her. “Cassandra told me I was mad, she would drag me out by my ears if she had too. You wouldn’t thank me for dying, she said.”

“She’s right,” Genevieve couldn’t hold the tears back. Her cheeks were wet in seconds. “If somethings happens—Maker and Andraste forbid it—but if something happens, you have to promise me you’ll go on.”

“Could you?” He grumbled, as if he found her plea insulting. “Could you make the same promise?” Truthfully, having it flung back at her stung...because he was right. She wasn’t sure she could just move on without him. They were tied together; the Inquisition had changed them both and chained them.

“I don’t think I could,” she whispered. “But I would try, because I know you. You’d want me to keep living; you’d want me to fight on,”

He pulled her closer and she winced as his movement rubbed against her burn. “You’re right; you’re always right,”

“Not always,”

“When you love someone, sometimes, you have to let them go,” he murmured, now she was laying on his chest and doing her best not to put too much weight on him or her wound. “I was ready to do that once,”

She recalled how that went; “And I told you; _‘I wasn’t ready to let you go,’”_

“Aye,” he grunted and she kissed him. It recaptured the heat of their kiss only hours earlier. Starting slow and then picking up warmth and speed. He was being mindful of her injury; his hands never left her shoulders. She, however, didn’t need to worry about that. Her hands roamed over the hard lines of his chest; he was relaxed though, so those hard lines were softer. Blackwall was a feast for her senses. The memory of all that had transpired in the Deep Roads eased away as she wrapped herself up in him.

But, as before, it never went past kissing. He was right, they both needed to rest. At least now she felt relaxed enough to actually sleep. And she did sleep, waking only when it was time to make their desperate escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, don't forget to share with your friends!


	32. Chapter XXII: Sebastian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

_**Chapter XXXII – Sebastian** _

His Lady Wife would argue, should Sebastian ever bring it up, but Skylar Vael could snore, _loudly_ —it was almost dwarf-like. He’d only had the one sip of dwarven ale, so unlike the others, he remained sober. Skylar was sleeping off her drunk, her head carefully cradled in the dip of his shoulder. She was practically snoring right into his ear, but he didn’t have the heart to wake her.

He was caught in a strange place of feeling. The Divine had _“absolved him of his vows,”_ but she had been drunk while doing so. She also had yet to be sworn in as Divine; and if he remembered his Chantry Law correctly, that meant she didn’t really have the right to absolve vows or make marriage contracts—but, his heart was swollen with sentiment. At this point, he didn’t care that it wasn’t exactly legitimate.

After the Divine’s outburst, Skylar had been particularly mum on the subject of his vows. That might have been because she was drunk—but he knew her well enough to know that a drunk Skylar, wasn’t a stupid Skylar. She would probably ambush him later with it, or maybe she knew just as he did; that the Divine’s words were kind, but not wholly legitimate.

He appreciated the sentiment though.

The fire was burning low and they had just enough wood to keep it going for a while longer. Even wrapped up in furs and blankets, Sebastian felt the cold stinging him. Skylar shivered, and he absolutely couldn’t have that. Carefully, he eased himself out from under his wife and gently tucked the blankets around her.

After stirring the coals and trying to coax the last bit of heat out of the flame, Sebastian added another bit of wood. They had a pot of stew leftover; it would be their final meal before they tried to make their escape. He didn’t want it to burn, but the coals under it were dying so he replaced them by pushing the coals over with a stick.

Sebastian thought about settling back down with his wife when he decided he would rather have a cup of tea first. The Inquisitor had left her bag of dried chamomile and mint with their supplies. Using a burning brand from the fire, he went down the hall to their little water supply and filled a tin cooking pot with freshwater.

Back in the main chamber, he mixed tea leaves into the water and let it simmer on the fire. Skylar was curled up under their sleeping furs and he thought about the dagger promise she had left in place of his Grandfather’s bow. He hadn’t given them back to her yet and she hadn’t asked for them. He thought about taking them out of his pack and leaving them under her pillow to find…but that didn’t seem right given the circumstances.

Sebastian scratched his chin and felt an awful lot of stubble; he would need to shave when they got to Weisshaupt. Maybe he would give the knives back to her there—but that soon lost its savor. There was a place and a time for these kinds of things, and neither the Deep Roads nor the Warden fortress would fit the bill. After everything they had been through, it only seemed right to give them to her once they were home, once he had _officially_ asked the Chantry to free him.

And he would do it. No more procrastinating. No more waiting. He’d wasted enough time.

Watching the Inquisitor slowly die in a pool of her own blood had got him thinking: one—they were incredibly lucky, the Maker smiled on their little group, _that was for sure_ ; two, she very easily could have Hawke; and three, life was fragile. While roaming Kirkwall their little group had danced around death a thousand different ways. Skylar had been to the Deep Roads and back more times that some Wardens could boast. She was more than clever enough to finish bar fights with word, but she had always chosen her fists. To top it all off, she had taken it upon herself to be the protector of Kirkwall.

His Lady Hawke had a way of snatching barrowed time right from the jaws of death itself.

The way she seemed to fling herself into trouble, lavish in violence, and dance on the edge of a knife had always terrified and awed him. But and age crept up on them, it was time to quit the adventures, to hang up their weapons, and give peace and quiet a chance.

And the only way Skylar was ever going to do that, was if he upheld his end of the bargain. She had killed Anders—someone she had once considered a friend—she had rendered justice at Sebastian’s behest and once all the dust had settled; he’d promised to take her away from all of it. He had promised to take her to Starkhaven and make her Princess. Because he owed it to her. She had done so much for him and he had failed to make good on his promises.

He wanted to wake her up, to tell her this. But when he rose, she shifted in their makeshift bed and let out a loud, unlady-like snore. He chuckled to himself and decided it would have to wait. She was too damn cute when she slept. Hawke was hardly cute—beautiful, was usually the word—and vicious. She was too brutal for words like _cute and adorable_. But when she slept, she had the look of a calmed beast—a sleeping dragon.

Sebastian poured his tea and sat down by the fire to drink it.

“Is there more of that?” He barely noticed the Inquisitor come in. He quickly nodded. She padded barefoot over to the fire and poured herself a cup.

“It’s so cold down here,” she muttered, setting her cup down and pulling her cloak closer. “I’ll be glad to see the sun again,”

“Aye,” Sebastian agreed, “Me too.”

The Inquisitor took up her cup again, gently blew on it, and sipped. “I know it isn’t really official, but how does it feel to be free of your vows?”

Sebastian laughed nervously. “Like I need to get a move on making it official; and what about you?”

She smiled softly, “Marriage is nice, but Blackwall and I never needed it to be together, when we return we’ll make it official. After all, he got me a ring,” she held up the little stone ring and admired it for a moment.

Sebastian nodded. “Our wedding was in no means traditional,” he took a glance over at Skylar, who was snoring softly now. “And our marriage even less so—but Sky is my best friend and I cannot imagine life without her.” The words were true. A life without Skylar Hawke was no life at all. She was rambunctious, ornery, and sometimes rancorous to the point of fury; but she was also blithe and caring, you had to scratch deep below the surface to see the motherly side of her—but it was there. She took care of those friends and family in her circle, protecting them from all dangers in the same way a mother great-bear might guard her cubs.

“I feel the same about Blackwall,” The Inquisitor smiled. She took another few sips of tea. “We’ve been through a lot—I had to fight for him,”

“Sky and I sort of…” he paused, their love had always seemed fated, but they hadn’t exactly fallen into it. He had loved her from afar at first—as a friend should love a friend, any feelings that went past that he made himself bury down. He had been a Brother of the Chantry and had forsaken worldly romance. But as Skylar had shown more interest him, the sharply drawn line he had placed between them had begun to blur and late at night, when the other lay brothers had gone to bed, he had stayed awake praying the Maker for guidance. _Your Church, Maker? Or your Creation? Which one do you want me to have? Give me a sign._

But a definitive sign never came and he tried to straddle both worlds and made his wife miserable in the process. Now he had a chance to change though, and make his wife a true princess. Skylar Hawke deserved that. 

“Well,” he finished. “I think the Maker had us cross paths for reason,”

The Inquisitor smiled brightly, she looked better than she had in days. “I think the same of Blackwall and I,” she looked relieved, as if it was nice to find someone who felt the same way as she did. Sebastian couldn’t help but smile too. “Some things are just meant to be,”

Sebastian agreed and offered to make the Inquisitor another cup of tea, but she declined. “I should try to get some more sleep,”

“Me too,” he muttered, “Good night, your Worship,”

When the Inquisitor left, Sebastian put away the tea and pot and climbed back into bed. Just as he was getting comfortable, he felt Skylar move and very suddenly, she was sitting on his chest the same way she did when she was holding an enemy to the ground. She had even pinned his wrists, he thanked Andraste she didn’t have a dagger at least.

“Your best friend, eh?” she chuckled, smiling like a cat with cream. “Can’t imagine life without me?”

“Did you hear all that?” He should have known. But he was smiling with glee. He was glad to hear her voice, too feel her pressed against him, no matter how compromising a position he was in.

“Her Worship isn’t the only person who can pretend she’s sleeping,” He could see the hard, almost wild look in her eyes. She pressed a kiss to his nose and added; “I practically wrote the book on it,”

“Aye,” he chuckled. She softened then, let go of his wrists and took her knees off his stomach.

“I think we were made for each other,” she added, pressing her face in closer to his.

“There is no doubt in my heart,” he whispered and lifted his head to meet her lips in a most unchaste kiss. Skylar lost her balance and fell against him; she gave up trying to find a place to put her hands. Sebastian wrapped his arms around her waist, changed his mind and cupped her face so he could deepen the kiss.

He didn’t care that he was losing control. He wanted to kiss her with reckless abandon. Because, even with the Inquisitor’s plan—this might very well be his last chance to.

Skylar’s cheek rasped against the scruff on his face; he hadn’t thought to bring a razor with him into the Deep Roads, he wondered if Serah Blackwall had one, but doubted it. A man with a beard like that didn’t use a razor to keep it neat. Quickly, he pushed the thought of shaving out of his mind and tried to focus on Skylar. She used to keep her hair short, but she’s been growing it long. He threaded his fingers through it; both of them were dirty and smelled of adventure and blood, her hair was greasy just as he imagined his was. But _Maker’s Breath_ , she was stunning. Rough around the edges in all the right ways. A perfect example of the Maker’s handiwork.

“The dwarf was right,” he muttered when they were force to come up for air. “I am crazy,” he pressed a series of soft pecks to her cheek and she chuckled.

“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder,” Skylar whispered. He could feel her breath in his ear. She was doing it on purpose.

“I’m pretty sure it’s _‘absence,_ ’” Sebastian turned his head and kissed her cheek.

“Don’t care,” Skylar rolled off of him and laid her head against his chest. She hummed softly and curled against him. Sebastian slipped his arm under her head and held her close. “You’ll tender your resignation to the Chantry when we get home right?” she asked, with just a trace of sadness.

Sebastian tried not to laugh, but he did. “I will send a letter from the first town we get too.”

“Promise?”

“Lady Vael, I swear upon the Maker and his Bride, that if we get out of this Maker-forsaken place, I will ask— _no, demand_ —an absolution of my vows.” And he meant it. He meant it a thousand times over. “And if the Chantry refuses me, I will…to borrow a phrase from you— _fuck them.”_ He hadn’t spoken like that in a long time; he could almost sense the smirk on his wife’s face.

She sat up, smirking, just as he thought she’d be, and laid a kiss on his cheek. “You owe me a silver,” she gently smacked his chest. “Pay up,”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” She chuckled. “I like being on the receiving end of swear jar money,”

Sebastian forced himself onto his feet, away from his warm bed and warm wife. He fished a silver piece out of his bag and tossed it to her. “It’s still going to a Chantry,” he told her. “That’s the arrangement,”

Skylar rolled her eyes and slipped the coin away into one of her many pockets. “Yeah, yeah.” Sebastian crawled back into bed and his wife melted against him. He kissed her temple and smoothed her hair. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, as if she could read his mind. “Her Worship has better luck than I do,” that comforted him a little, Hawke had pretty good luck.

XXXX

The Inquisitor and Serah Blackwall were the first to wake. They were quiet, but after a time their packing and preparations woke the others. Sebastian held Skylar to his chest for a little while longer before they both rose. Skylar went and got a pot of fresh water for tea. Varric and the Divine had slept off their hangovers, but they were slow to move.

The Queen was a fury of movement when she got up. She pulled out a small repair kit from her bag and started hammering away at the dents of her armor. The intensity with which she worked seemed to show how Sebastian felt. He and Varric were sorting through the rope the Inquisitor wanted them to use as anchors.

Skylar was digging through their things, throwing out anything that they didn’t need, anything that might weigh them down. All was silence, it was in stark contrast to their celebration only hours before. Sebastian didn’t like the silence—it was their enemy. He did the one thing he knew might bring them comfort; he sung the Chant.

_“In the long hours of the night When hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains. I have heard the sound A song in the stillness, The echo of Your voice, Calling creation to wake from its slumber.”_ He started, Trials was always a good place to start with the Chant, especially just before a battle or dangerous mission. While recovering from her injuries after defeating the Arishok in single combat, Sebastian had sung the whole of Trials in a soft whisper by Skylar’s beside. To this day, he still didn’t know if she had heard him.

The Inquisitor looked up from her work and nodded appreciably; _“How can we know You? In the turning of the seasons, in life and death, In the empty space where our hearts Hunger for a forgotten face?”_ She knew the Chant just as well as he did.

Their work moved faster, with a beat and a rhythm. The Queen kept her hammering quiet and didn’t say a word, neither did Warden Oghren. Varric, Sebastian knew, was Andrastian, he would never admit it—but he tapped his foot to their Verse, as if he knew the words but was too shy to say them.

_“You have walked beside me Down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others Have forsaken me.”_ Skylar was not outwardly religious, and she had a less than perfect attendance record when it came to the Chantry, but she smiled whenever Sebastian glanced at her. He was keeping their spirits up, something he felt the Chant could do for any soul. Whether someone believed or not, the simple beat was a marching tune; it woke the soul in a way Sebastian couldn’t understand. And to those who did believe; it was a promise. _I am not alone._ That was all he needed from his faith, to know he didn’t wander the world in loneliness. To know that Hawke didn’t walk alone. Or Varric. Or any of their other friends, no matter how far away they were.

_“I have faced armies With You as my shield, And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing Can break me except Your absence.”_

At the end of the verse, the Inquisitor stood and looked over their work. “We can do this,” she muttered. “Lady Hawke, help me with the Antivan fire, Sebastian, Cassandra, find good places to tether us; Varric, you and Blackwall should fill our wineskins with water and see if you can find places to mount some torches. If we’re lucky, they’ll stay lit.” 

They got to work. Sebastian searched around the room for good places to tie them. He and the Divine settled on a broken piece of statuary—something that might have once been the statue of a dwarven ancestor. The position gave the Inquisitor plenty of space so she could light the Antivan fire and still hid from the blast. They ended up having to give a bit more rope to the Queen and Warden Oghren; they would be manning the doors and needed more slack in order to reach the mechanism.

Sebastian figured another hour of work had passed before they sat down for their final meal. It was somber, and ended with the shuffle of clothing and the clinking of armor. They tied themselves to the statue, and Sebastian felt a bit of fear course through him. He kissed Skylar and prayed it wasn’t for the last time.

With bow in hand and the last of his arrows on his back, he braced himself against the wall, Skylar, Varric, the Divine, and Serah Blackwal beside him. Warden Oghren and Queen Anastasia at the door mechanism.

The Inquisitor lamented not having a staff, raised her hands and asked; “Ready?”

They answered; “Ready,” and “Let’s do this.”

“Andraste preserve us,” Sebastian heard the Inquisitor muttered. “Maker forgive me if I kill us all,” There was a red glow as she laid down a series of fire traps. Only a moment passed, Sebastian closed his eyes, kept one hand on his bow and the other one on Skylar’s shoulder, and felt the stone lurch beneath his feet.

The chamber filled with dust and smoke and the stone rang with the force of the explosion. The din in his ears was enough to make his head ache, and the air choked off his breath. But the rush of water never came. They had no need to open the doors and there was nothing to see until the dust settled.

When the dust finally did settle, they saw what happened. The modified Antivan fire and the Inquisitor’s spells had worked; chunks of stone and rock had been blown from the rubble mass. But there more stone behind it. It appeared the Queen was right, the hallway had collapsed and there just hadn’t been enough power to blow it all.

They sat before the collapsed hallway, defeated.

It was enough to break the heart, but Sebastian wouldn’t let it break his spirit. They would just have to do it the old fashion way—the Queen’s way. It would be harder on them, but if they worked together they just might make it out.

“Genevieve,” Serah Blackwall reached down to where the Inquisitor had sat, disheartened, by the rubble. “Get up, quick,” he put his arms under her shoulder and hoisted her to her feet.

Then, Sebastian heard it. A rumbling deep in the bowels of the Roads. At first, he thought it was the sound of darkspawn marching, but he thought better.

It was the sound of water. And it was coming right for them.

Sebastian grabbed Skylar and pushed her against the wall so he could shield her with his body. The water hit the barricade of rubble, with overwhelming force. The stone gave in to the torrent and broke free, opening the tunnel and sending rock and water flying. The water reached Sebastian waist high, it was freezing; he felt his legs grow weak in seconds, but he would stand his ground.

Behind him, he heard the screech of the doors open. Even without much time, the Queen and Warden Oghren had managed to open the doors before they all downed. The roar of darkspawn joined the rush of water. The Inquisitor screamed that they had to move forward, but the torrential water was too strong.

If they didn’t drown, they were going to freeze to death. He couldn’t let that happen now—they were so close. His mind worked through the problem, he just needed rope.

“Hawke, I need you to hold onto Varric!” He roared over the rush. “I need your rope!”

She didn’t argue with him. Varric held to Hawke with all his might while Sebastian cut the rope from her and quickly tied it to an arrow. The Divine and Blackwall seemed to know what he was doing; they took hold of him and hoisted him through the water, giving him space so he could draw his bow.

He fired blindly into the dark hoping to catch a niche in the walls. His arrow floated back to him and he reeled it back. Sebastian fired again, caught something, gave it a sharp tug, and the arrow released.

Now that he had a spot to fire at, Sebastian took aim. The water was so cold he was shivering. His aim would be off. He tried to calm himself, tried to think of how warm he would be once he got them out of here.

He fired and felt the arrow connect. He gave it a tug, it held.

“Cut loose and use the rope!” he screamed, grabbed the Inquisitor’s hand and pushed her forward. The Divine followed her, then Skylar and Varric. Serah Blackwall went next, with Oghren and the Queen after. Feeling triumphant, Sebastian was the last to enter the dark, cold tunnel.

It was so dark he couldn’t see a damn thing. He only felt the burn of icy water. His fingers were getting numb, his feet were nearly lifeless. Just when he thought it wasn’t going to end, hands caught him by the armor. The Queen hauled him into shallow water and Skylar wrapped him up in her arms.

There was a lot of nervous laughter—the laughter of people who had just escaped the jaws of death. Sebastian might have joined them, but he had spotted a light at the end of the dark tunnel and he fixated on the idea of sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That concludes part 2, I have a couple of papers and three finals coming up before we break for Christmas. Personally, I need to take a breather and get all my ducks in a row, so to speak. I want to be back before Christmas, but right now I can't make any promises. The one year anniversary of Two-Hundred Roses is coming up, and if you haven't read it, may suggest it? Thanks for your understanding and as always, thanks for reading, comments, kudos are always appreciated, don't forget to bookmark and subscribe! 
> 
> Questions, comments? I always try to answer back whenever I can!


	33. Chapter XXXIII - Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, I'm back; hope everyone had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. If you've started a new semester of school like I have, then I wish you the best of luck! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, enjoy!

_**Chapter XXXIII – Blackwall** _

The glowing lichen provided them enough light to walk by and that was the best thing Blackwall could say about the passageway. The passage was strewn with rubble, broken stone, rusted weapons, skeletons, and all manner of sharp, jagged objects. At any moment someone could trip and impale themselves. 

Water flowed at ankle deep level, it was freezing and slow going. Genevieve lagged behind; her breath came out in ragged gasps. Blackwall stayed with her; they stopped to rest and he took both her hands in his and tried to rub some feeling back into her fingers. She was shivering, he wanted to warm her up; but all their clothes were soaking wet. There would be no warmth until they could get out of the water. 

“You’re turning blue,” he muttered and tried to make it seem like a joke, but his spirit was too cold and damp to raise anyone else’s.

“I’m alright,” her teeth chattered as she spoke. She was not alright. He could tell, but they had to keep going. They pressed onward, hand in hand. Blackwall moved anything that might trip her. Their companions were getting further and further away; he heard Cassandra urge them to hurry. She stopped and waited for them to catch up. Blackwall didn’t know if the tunnel would split directions; he didn’t want to lose their friends and wind up wandering down here for perpetuity.

Blackwall picked Genevieve up and carried her to catch up with their friends. She complained slightly, but he could feel each shiver run through her as her complaining gave way to weakness. She had just recovered from one injury and now she was going to freeze to death. He couldn’t let that happen, not now. Not ever. _He needed her._

Once caught up with Cassandra, they carried on down the hallway. The Seeker led them around a corner where the others had stopped at an iron gate. Lady Hawke was kneeling in the water, beside her, the Prince held up a little box of lock picking tools.

“This is the opening to the sewers,” Varric explained as they approached. In the glow of the lichen, Blackwall saw the faint traces of hair on his chin. The rogue was just as bedraggled as the rest of them.

“Give her some room,” he grumbled, pulling her away from the gate. The Queen relented, especially when he flashed a harsh glare at her when she opened her mouth to protest.

He was still angry. He still wanted his pound of flesh. Having Genevieve back and safe in his arms had renewed his resolve and marrying her—no matter how unofficial—made him resilient. She was strong, _stronger than him_ ; but now he needed to be strong enough for the both of them. That started with protecting their friends, protecting her.

The Princess cursed and threw away a broken pick. “Who made this damn door?” She growled, and took another tool from her box.

“Dwarves,” Oghren answered.

Lady Hawke sighed as she broke another pick; her fingers were shaking from the cold. “Well, I suppose we could throw ourselves at it until it breaks.” She stood up and examined the door as a whole. Her husband closed her box of tools and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“This is our way out,” the Queen growled, her hand was again on her sword. “The darkspawn are coming, we need to get through this gate, Princess,”

“What part of _‘dwarves’_ did no one get?” Warden Oghren asked, his usual ruddy complexion had fled. “We’re not breaking through it and she sure as shit isn’t going to pick it,” Blackwall had spent much of his time ignoring the drunken dwarf, but now the Warden’s foul mood was palpable. On top of being cold and tried like the rest of them, he was hungover and blamed them for it.

“Well, you’re a dwarf, figure out how to get it open,” Lady Hawke snapped and an argument broke out.

While the rest of their companions argued on how best to get the gate open, Blackwall looked Genevieve over and tried to think of the best way to get her warm. He had enough experience with freezing cold to know it was best to take wet clothes off and huddle naked under a blanket. But that was currently out of the question. They didn’t have any dry blankets to wrap her up in. He thought about taking off his armor and trying to share his body heat, but there were darkspawn behind them—he would need it if they couldn’t get through the gate—and he was beginning to feel the cold seep into his bones.

“I want to look at the gate,” Genevieve murmured, her teeth chattered together loud enough for Blackwall to hear. Their friends didn’t hear her, Blackwall ended up repeating her. Lady Hawke backed away from the door so Genevieve could examine it. Blackwall winced when she stepped into the cold water again.

“Maybe I can melt the bars?” she asked herself through chattering teeth.

He tried to listen to what else she had to say, but his thoughts were pulled away when Warden Oghren grumbled; “We’ve got company.”

The sound of darkspawn cackling filled the tunnel. Blackwall wanted to draw his sword, but the channel was too narrow. He opted for his shield. “We’ll hold them off,” he growled.

“Try to get us through the gate,” the Queen huffed, took her shield and followed Oghren and Blackwall down the path.

Blackwall didn’t sense them the way Warden’s did. But he could see the yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. It was going to be hard battling side-by-side in the narrow hall.

“Come on!” Blackwall taunted, it was best to draw them in, make them give up ground. The first darkspawn rushed forward and thrust out with its sword. Blackwall took the blade against his shield, slid the end towards the wall and the bashed a mailed fist against the creature’s face. The darkspawn fell, stunned, and its fellows trampled it into the ankle deep water.

The Queen reached forward and grabbed the wooden shaft of a darkspawn poleax as a genlock tried to break through the assault. She yanked the beast forward, Blackwall slammed his shield into its head, stunning it, and the Queen forced its head down into the water and used the creature as a launchpad, pushing herself over the crowd. She landed shield first into the mass of darkspawn, breaking jaws and arms with every flash of her shield.

For a moment, Blackwall almost panicked as she was swallowed up into the mass. It didn’t matter what she had done before, at this moment she was a needed ally. If she went down, they might all very well die.

“Shit,” Blackwall grunted and threw his weight behind his shield, knocking down any darkpawn in his way. He slammed the pointed end of his shield into the neck of a hurlock, threw a genlock into another and pulled the rusted ax away from a hurlock. The small hand ax was easier to use in the hall, it was dull—but it made a good blunt-force weapon. It split open a hurlock skull as well as any sharpened blade.

“Cousland!” Oghren roared. “If I get back to Ferelden without you, Therin will skin me alive!” the dwarf threw himself further into the fray and took point in front of Blackwall. “Swishy nughumper!” he cursed and drove his fingers into the eye socket of a genlock before kicking it backward into the water.

“Warden,” Blackwall passed him the ax. The dwarf had a better chance to get to the Queen than he did. Blackwall would stay back and hold the line. He slammed his shield against the chest of a hurlock, sending the creature stumbling into the water. Any other darkspawn that slipped past the two Wardens were his for the taking. If they didn’t drown, Blackwall smashed their heads into the walls with his shield.

Bodies were choking the hallway and it was difficult to see as if the noise was disrupting the glowing lichen. The fray was using up all his senses, Blackwall was so focused on trying to spot the Queen and Warden Oghren, that he didn’t hear anyone calling him name until the Prince grabbed his shoulder.

“We’re through,” the Prince cried, and then yelled down the hall for the Queen.

Blackwall shoved the blunt lip of his shield into a darkspawn neck and bellowed for the two wardens to retreat. Beside him, the Prince loosed an arrow, killing a genlock as it climbed over a mound of bodies.

“Blackwall!” He heard Genevieve call. Her voice was hoarse and tinged in fear. He needed to go to her; but, the two Wardens had not freed themselves from the battle. “ _Blackwall!_ ”

_Maker’s bloody balls_ , he roared inwardly and rushed forward. He pushed his shield against the wall of darkspawn corpses and opened a way for the Wardens. Behind him, the Prince was using the last of his arrows to keep the darkspawn off his back.

“We’re through, move— _now!”_ Blackwall roared when he spotted the Queen. The Queen, covered in blood and looking like a wild animal, met his eyes and ushered Oghren back towards the gate.

The darkspawn were nipping at their heels when they made it through the open gate, Blackwall nearly ran right into Genevieve. He wanted to scoop her up into his arms again, but instead, he turned and they slammed the gate shut, cutting the darkspawn off. A hurlock reached through the bars and tried to grab them, the Queen snapped the creature’s arm and they backed away from the gate.

“We need to go,” the Queen had to shout over the angry gurgles and screams of the darkspawn. She started down the tunnel, not waiting to see if anyone had heard her.

Blackwall took Genevieve’s hand in his and they followed after the Wardens. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have too. Getting though that gate meant they were safe…for now at least. He might have picked her up and kissed her for using whatever magic she had used to open the gate, but they were in too much of a hurry.

The water was abating, the glowing lichen was thinning. They came up a sharp incline where moss and slime grew like weeds. It was slower going than when they were in the water. Blackwall kept Genevieve in front of him so that he could catch her if she slipped. She grew wearier as they went; her feet skimmed the ground whenever she lifted them, she slipped more often than not, and when Blackwall caught her, her skin felt cold to the touch, but he could feel the heat rising off her face.

“Weisshaupt has healers,” the Queen said, when told them she was feverish again.

Blackwall didn’t see Lady Hawke roll her eyes so much as he felt it. “What she means is, Weisshaupt is her best hope right now, Serah Blackwall. We need to keep moving,”

“They’re right,” Genevieve muttered and tried to continue on. “We keep going.”

“You’ll die on your feet at this rate,” Blackwall muttered. This venture was taking everything they had. It was killing her. It was killing him.

“Then it will never be said that Inquisitor Trevelyan didn’t _die standing_ ,” Genevieve snarled, grabbed Cassandra’s outstretched arm, and forced herself to keep going. Blackwall caught her when she slipped again. He had nothing to say. What could he say? Her anger was making her determined, but her determination would burn through what little was left of her.

_Someone is going to pay for this_ , Blackwall thought as he and Cassandra caught Genevieve by each side and held her up as they made the rest of the arduous trek upward. _Someone will bleed for every second she suffers._ He found his thoughts wandering to what they would do about the Queen when this was over. It was a marching tune. Genevieve would call his planning vengeance—unnecessary violence made to sate a temporary rage. _Justice. Vengeance_. It didn’t matter. The Spymaster would find out about this and the Inquisition would demand retribution. A trial. A conviction. And a rope: the punishment for attempted assassination of the Herald of Andraste.

_A trial. A conviction. And a rope._

  
_Trial. Conviction. Rope._

  
_Trial. Conviction. Rope._

It guided him, kept his cold and aching feet moving. That, and Genevieve needed him. She needed to lean on him, needed him to guide her as she stumbled semi-conscious though the dark. He had spent so much time leaning on her—his immovable pillar of strength, his wife. And now, she needed him to be that pillar. 

_You will not die down here. I won’t let you._ Blackwall thought that maybe he was praying, but he wasn’t sure the Maker could hear them down here. _You will die surrounded by our six children, happy and fulfilled. The world will mourn your passing—their brave Inquisitor, their Herald of Andraste—will die in Skyhold a hundred years from now, you’ll lie in state and pilgrims will wail at your funeral mass—the mass will be so large; they’ll have to hold it on the banks of the river. Where they lay your ashes, people will come from all around the world just to pray where you rest. Because you’re the kind of woman who deserve it. Because you saved the world. Because you faced evil without even flinching. Because you saved a dying church. Because you took a broken old man and made him into something worth existing. If the Maker is listening then He’ll see it done. Because that’s what she deserves._

The channel evened, and they were stumbling though the ruins of something that was not dwarven. It was a mish-mash of architecture. Dwarven, Elven, Imperium—it was solid stone, younger than what they had found in the Deep Roads. They had to be under Weisshaupt. They had to be close. 

_Soon,_ he promised Genevieve, without words. _Soon._

They came into an open chamber with a chasm splitting it in half. Across the gorge, Blackwall spotted the faint outline of a ladder. 

But the bridge that once spanned the crevasse was a ruin. And they were on the wrong side.

It was cruel joke. A malicious twist of fate.

The Maker was an ass.

Blackwall was going to say something, but Genevieve broke from his embrace and, on shaky legs, walked to the edge of the chasm. Varric went to stop her, as if he thought she was going to jump. But she just roared a curse in frustration. Blackwall started for her, he thought she was going to cry—she had every right to, but when she turned to face them, it wasn’t tears in her eyes.

It was rage.

Genevieve had a temper. It was the kind that seethed and burned low and slow until that one thing… _that final straw_ boiled her over the top. She could fume for hours—days even. She had never turned her wrath on her people, only on her enemies. But there were no enemies here. Only the Queen and a broken bridge.

“I should kill you,” Genevieve growled, her eyes narrowed on the Queen. “ _I should kill you for what you’ve done to us_ ,”

“You, of all people, deserve my death, Inquisitor. But my death isn’t what you need right now.” The Queen’s breathing was easy and calm as if she expected this outburst. If the tales were to be believed, the Queen had stared down things crueler and more wrathful than Genevieve Trevelyan. _The Archdemon is nothing compared to my lady’s temper,_ Blackwall almost smirked.

The chamber filled with a green glow. The mark had flared, casting a pale green over Genevieve’s features. “You’re right, I need a doctor, and you’re going to get me one.” She closed her fist and turned back to the trench. Blackwall almost lurched forward; he was worried that she would go over the edge. But he stopped dead in his tracks when he felt the flare of magic. His ears popped like the wind had picked up—but it was a sealed chamber, there was no wind.

Genevieve threw her arms up into the air and the chamber lit green as she opened her palm. From the abyss, the broken bits of wooden bridge rose out of the darkness. They hung in the air, bobbing up and down as if they floated on water.

Blackwall observed her magicked bridge with tentativeness. It did not look stable and there was no way she could hold it for long.

“Go,” Genevieve barked, her voice full of strain. “I don’t know how long I can hold it, go!” she was looking at the Queen, but it was Cassandra who stepped up first.

“I trust you with all my heart,” the Seeker said, taking her sword belt and shield and flinging them across the chasm where they hit the other side in a class of steel against stone. Then, with quick reflexes and absolute faith, she jumped from platform to platform until she was across to the other side.

“Never bet against a hero,” Varric muttered, shouldered Bianca, and rushed across the gap almost a quick as the Seeker.

“Go, wife,” the Prince muttered, ushering Lady Hawke across and following after.

Blackwall looked at the Queen and Warden Oghren. The dwarf scowled beneath his bushy red beard and broke into a run. He shouted for the Queen to follow him as he made it to the other side. The Queen frowned at Blackwall, smoothed her greying hair, flung her sword and shield across the trench and was across in a moment.

And now it was Blackwall’s turn. He threw his sword and shield to Cassandra and got ready to make his run. But he stopped when he thought about Genevieve. Would she be able to support it and cross at the same time? He couldn’t leave her down here.

“Go, Blackwall,” Genevieve growled. She was freezing cold, but he could see the sweat beading on her brow.

“How will you cross?” he demanded. He didn’t need to hear her answer to know it. She wouldn’t be crossing, she would wait while they fetched Wardens to help.

Blackwall knew he had earned the right to say he’d put up with a lot of shit on this Maker-damned trip: he’d let them sneak out of Skyhold against his better judgement, he’d help fight a dragon, was cornered by darkspawn, used as a threat against the woman he loved, and then he watched helplessly as she nearly died in his arms.

_No. No more._ He thought to himself, angry all of a sudden, at Genevieve, at the Queen, at Cassandra, and the whole damned world. He didn’t say a word as he scooped her up in his arms.

The bridge bobbed and heaved violently as her concentration was disrupted. But after a moment, the spell stabilized and Blackwall carried her across the crevasse. When they were on the other side, he set Genevieve down on her feet and she swayed. He caught her when she fell and the sound of wood crashed against the ground as her spell dispersed.

“We’ll get you a healer,” Cassandra muttered as she helped Blackwall ease Genevieve back onto her feet.

The Queen had already mounted the ladder and was halfway up. Blackwall helped Genevieve grasp the ladder and went up after her in case she fell. The Warden Fortress awaited.

XXXX

The ladder opened up to an unused sewer grate and in a few moments they gathered in the stifling dark and cold of Weisshaupt’s dungeons. In the Roads the glowing lichen had provided them with enough light to walk by, but it was pitch black here. Blackwall could only sense his companions, not see them.

Carefully, he reached out for Genevieve and found her shivering. She called a wisp to life and it threw a weak yellow glow over them.

“This way,” the Queen muttered and drew her sword.

Instinctively, Blackwall drew his own blade. The Queen had told them that something was very wrong in Weisshaupt—something so wrong they had to crawl through the Deep Roads to get to the fortress undetected. He wondered if there would be a fight and if they would be able to take so many Wardens.

But, the Queen moved like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. She had a plan; Blackwall could only hope that that plan got them to a healer, _soon._

They passed by empty cells with rusted bars. These cells had not seen use in a very long time, and Blackwall found himself wondering what the Wardens would need with so many cells. The Queen led them up a set of round turret stairs and into another long cellblock. This cellblock was much the same as the last, only the cell doors had been removed and in every alcove was stacked boxes of supplies: bandages, blankets, foodstuffs, and mercifully, Blackwall noticed in the pale, weak light of Genevieve’s mote…clothes.

He stopped them then and demanded Genevieve get out of her wet and torn clothes and into something dry. Cassandra and Lady Hawke helped Genevieve out of her oversized, wet tunic and into a blue tunic slashed with grey and white. They put a padded tunic over that and found a pair of fur lined leggings and a set of leather boots. Unable to find a cloak, Blackwall found a relatively soft blanket and griffin brooch and made Genevieve a makeshift cloak. By the time they had finished outfitting her, the others had decided to shuck their ruined clothing for warmer, heartier warden uniforms and Warden Oghren had helped himself to the rations.

Using his oversized battleax, the dwarf broke open into a cask of salt beef. He passed around chunks of meat. It wasn’t until he smelled the beef when Blackwall realized how hungry he was. He dressed in the spare clothing quickly and then tore ravenously at his ration. Genevieve nibbled carefully on her piece; she ate very little, and only after some coaxing. The clothes and the beef helped her, but it was really a healer and rest that she needed.

Once they were warmly dressed and had broken their fast, the Queen took them up another flight of stairs and into another cellblock. This one too, was stacked floor to ceiling with supplies; wine, beer, salt, spices, casks full of lard for soap, and stacks of furs and leathers for clothing and armor.

“The upper dungeon is above,” the Queen whispered at the foot of another flight of stairs. “and above that is the supply requisition. We must go quietly.”

They crept up the stairs in single file. Blackwall stuck close to Genevieve and kept his eyes on her in case she fell. But she didn’t and they reached the last cellblock. Like all the others, Blackwall expected the cells to be empty or stacked with crates and barrels. But these cells were full of prisoners.

“Who goes there?” A man’s voice rasped out from behind the bars. The sound of shuffling bodies filled the block. Genevieve snuffed her spell wisp and they stood still, waiting…hoping that those in the cells would go back to sleep.

“Warden-Commander Anastasia Therin,” the Queen suddenly answered and stepped towards cell where the voice had sounded. “With Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan and her companions,”

“Therin?” A voice said, almost joyously. “You came back, Commander? But how?”

“Up through the Deep Roads, quick, tell me. Is there a healer among you?”

“I am a healer, Warden-Commander,” a woman’s voice broke through the dark. “There’s a torch on the wall, bring it here and let me light it,”

The Queen moved through the dark with quick efficiently and then in seconds the room was bright with firelight. Blackwall blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. What he saw had little explanation. The cells were full of Grey Wardens; they all lay on pallets or against the wall, all of them almost stacked against each other like casks of salted meat. Many were ragged looking, and starving. They reeked of unwashed bodies, but Blackwall supposed their band didn’t smell any better.

“Who needs medical attention?” asked an elven mage, her face smeared with dirt and eyes sunk with exhaustion.

“The Inquisitor,” the Queen answered. Blackwall helped Genevieve get up to the bars.

“ _Inquisitor?_ Did she say Inquisitor?” A weak voice asked from a cell further down the row. Cassandra went to check the other cell and gasped. Genevieve broke from Blackwall’s embrace and went to Cassandra’s side. Blackwall followed.

“Maker bless us,” one of the cell’s occupants muttered. “It is an honor too look upon your face, your Worship. You’re more beautiful than the painting do you justice.”

Genevieve reached out and took the hand of an Inquisition solider. “Are you from Hossberg?” she asked, her voice as raspy and weak as the prisoners.

“Yes, your Worship.” The solider answered. “We came to the fortress when we received word…I’ve lost track of time, we’ve been down here for a long time, your Worship.”

“They were not here when the Queen and I made our escape,” Lady Hawke muttered, took a lockpick from her bag, and set to work freeing the nine Inquisition soldiers the Wardens had shoved into the small cell. “I’m going to get you out,”

“Why are you all down here?” Genevieve asked.

“The First Warden,” the solider answered. His uniform was soiled in sweat, dirt, and blood. “We were ten when we received orders from Skyhold to check in on Weisshaupt and find the Princess of Starkhaven,”

“The First Warden put you all down here?” Cassandra looked over the overfilled cells.

“It was the Magister’s doing. He has the First Warden’s ear.” Said the elven man who’d been the first to call out to them. “Those of us who...opposed the Magister got thrown down here.”

“A Magister?” Genevieve rasped. “From Tevinter?”

The Warden nodded. “Yes.” Then added. “I am Caronel, we would be grateful if you freed us,”

Lady Hawke had freed the Inquisition soldiers and they rose to their feet, only to fall to their knees in supplication before Genevieve. Still shaky and using Blackwall as a crutch, Genevieve place her hand on the shoulder of the first soldier and bid them all to rise after they had sworn to obey her. Blackwall was glad to see the nine added to their ranks; still, the soldiers were as weak and ragged as their Inquisitor.

“Should I free the Wardens, your Worship?” Lady Hawke asked, her tools still in hand.

Genevieve nodded and Lady Hawke knelt down and began work on the cell Warden Caronel and the elven healer were locked in. Blackwall had always found himself in awe with the way she could instantly commanded the attention and deference of those around her. Once the cell was open, the elven mage, Valya, helped Blackwall transfer Genevieve to one of the pallets in the cell.

After ensuring she was in safe hands, Blackwall stepped away and let the healer work. Warden Caronel was speaking with the Queen and Warden Oghren; the news was not good. “I am sorry, Commander, Dag was taken from the cells a few weeks ago and we haven’t seen him since.”

“It seems my instincts were right,” The Queen muttered. Here in the gloom, Blackwall noticed, for the first time, how beating down the Queen of Ferelden looked. She had lost weight and muscle mass during their time in the Roads, her mass of grey and brown hair hung limp where it had escaped her ponytail, worse were her eyes; she looked like a warrior who had swallowed the bitter bile of defeat one too many times. He did not have much sympathy for her, but he knew that look—the look of another soldier lost, another sword broken, another friend gone.

Then, the moment passed and her mouth grew hard. She launched into an overview of their journey in the Deep Roads. Blackwall turned away and looked over the jailed Wardens. A few had gone down below to where the supplies were kept and came back up with armfuls of smoked and salted meats. The Warden’s ate ravenously and quietly.

Blackwall pondered their predicament. How many Wardens does Weisshaupt support? More than one-hundred, surely…but less than a thousand—Grey Wardens were still a rare enough sight. How many had been locked in these cells? Blackwall made a rough count; there were about thirty-five, give or take. So how many are with the First Warden?

Quickly, Blackwall returned to Genevieve’s side. Valya’s hands were glowing softly in the dank; they hovered gently over Genevieve’s wound. The burn had sealed the wound shut, but that had left its own string of problems. The healer was dealing with those few blisters that remained. The ugly puckered skin didn’t look quite so bad now.

“Why did the First Warden put you down here?” Blackwall asked the healer and any other Warden who was listening.

“It’s a long story,” the healer muttered. “We don’t have time to explain it right now, but once we retake the fortress and have the First Warden in custody…then we will explain. Once the Inquisitor is better, we need to make our way up to the armory.”

Blackwall admired the Grey Wardens for their bravery and their tenacity, but he was getting damn tired of explanations coming after actions. “I should think the Inquisitor would like an answer, _now._ ”

“The Inquisitor is conscious and would like everyone to quit referring to her as if she isn’t here.” Genevieve muttered, her voice sounded stronger. The mage’s work was easing her pain, it seemed. “I’m more interested in this Tevinter Magister. Are you sure he’s a magister?”

Before Valya could answer, the Queen cut in. “It seems we have a problem, Inquisitor,”

“Oh, _good_ ,” Genevieve grumbled and Blackwall felt a little bit better. She got prickly when she was in a foul mood, and Genevieve’s foul moods took energy to upkeep. That meant she was feeling better. “What kind of problem now? Is it a dragon? It’s usually a dragon,”

Blackwall looked at the Queen and found she looked slightly perturbed. “It’s…it’s decidedly smaller,” the Queen murmured. “The First Warden has…always been removed from usual Grey Warden activities. Corruption of office seems to be the bill of fare today.”

Caronel explained; “He’s been taking bribes—but all First Wardens have done that. What worries us is the Magister. We Grey Wardens cannot afford to be picky with our allies. We know the horrors of Tevinter—the slavery, blood magic, the corruption, all of it—but we never shy away from the crimes of our patrons, especially when some from Tevinter can be rather generous. It can be the difference between having enough supplies through the winter and starving to death.”

Blackwall looked down at Genevieve. Some color had returned to her face. She was listening intently while the Warden’s explained their situation. The Magister Oreolous arrived one day with dozens of elven slaves that he wished to gift to the Wardens as recruits. This was not a common occurrence and when the First Warden gathered them up for a meeting, the sides were polarized. Most believed the Warden’s couldn’t just take slaves on, that becoming a Grey Warden had to be their choice and their choice alone. Others said they needed the numbers, especially now that the Inquisition had revealed to the world how Wardens were made. The First Warden even argued that because of the Inquisitor’s foolish reveal of the ritual, the Warden’s would have no choice but to press people into their ranks and buy slaves from Tevinter.

“Conscription is one thing, taking thieves, rapers, and murderers from some Arl’s dungeon is another—but buying slaves?” the Queen growled, outraged. “The First Warden should know better. Lady Hawke and I fled before this meeting was called. Maybe if I had stayed…” she trailed and Caronel continued.

It got worse. Not only were the slaves forced to go through the ritual, half of them died. The Magister offered his services to the First Warden, insisting he could be a way to get to the Magistirum’s ear.

“And well,” Caronel finished. “Out here, the First Warden is a king, and we are his subjects. The first order of business for a king is to line his pockets; the second is to jail dissenters.”

Genevieve was silent for a while. Blackwall knelt beside her, she placed her hand on his shoulder and asked him to help her sit up now that the healer had done all she could do. “It doesn’t seem we have much of a choice,” she muttered as Blackwall helped her lean up against the wall. “But we need weapons and armor.”

“The armory is two floors above, Inquisitor,” Caronel answered.

Genevieve nodded. “I can’t have a Magister whispering in the ear of the First Warden…the last time that happened we ended up traipsing about the Fade and I’m not eager to do it again. I need to know how many men the First has and the general layout of the fortress. We move quickly and quietly.”

And just like that, it was decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first thing I need to say is that I’m really excited about bringing Hawke Hunt into the final phase. The second thing is: I’m considering a title change and if anyone has an opinion on that, leave a comment (In Their Blood, would be the replacement). The third thing is that somethings have been happening in my life that may jeopardize my usual update-once-a-week schedule; I will try to keep making my updates weekly, but I can no longer promise it. Thank you for your understanding, I know it isn’t what any of us want, least of all me, but somethings just can’t be ignored.


	34. Chapter XXXIV: The Warden-Commander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first thing I'm sure you've noticed, is that I changed the name of Hawke Hunt to In Their Blood. I never really liked the name Hawke Hunt. It was just a project name and I finally decided that I disliked it enough to want to change it. Anyway, I'm sorry my updates haven't been once a week like we're all used too. But I'm having a tough semester and I kind of suddenly decided to rewrite the entire ending because I thought the ending wasn't as good as I thought it could be. Sorry for the wait, I hope you're still with me, enjoy!

_**Chapter XXXIV – the Warden-Commander** _

Dag’s death confirmed Ana’s suspicions. She had fled the fortress shortly after dag Dag had been seized; his death established that she would have been taken too, and, most importantly, _he had found_ _something_. Dag had died to keep the First Warden’s secrets. 

Now Ana needed to find out what Dag had died for. But first, she needed to get to the library and collect what she had come here for. Dag would not die in vain, his death just might give others life.

The Wardens were quietly getting ready for what would surely be battle. Ana’s dealings with the First Warden had proven him to be a callous, greedy, but battle-hardened veteran. He had thrown his own soldiers into cells; if he could do that, she could only imagine what he would do once he found out they had escaped. However, if she could bring him to his knees, those Wardens left to him would relent. The Magister was another story, though.

Without weapons and armor, the Wardens were severely outmatched. Caronel sent out two scouts to see to any guards. When the all clear was sounded the Wardens moved with quick efficiency. The Inquisitor, no longer lagging behind, was surrounded by her soldiers as they made their quick approach to the armory.

Ana stopped and ushered those behind her ahead. “Go,” she whispered. “Subdue any guards quietly—avoid bloodshed if you can.” Lady Hawke crept passed and eyed her with deep suspicion. Ana tried her best to ignore it, but she knew she had to be careful. The Princess had chosen not to kill her in the Roads, but she could just as easily change her mind.

“Cousland,” Oghren grunted, as Ana watched the last of the Warden’s sneak down the hall. She made to go take the stairs up to the library when the dwarf caught her by the wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To get what I came for,” she growled. “Go with the others, I must do this alone.”

She waited until Oghren and the Wardens were out of sight, then, turned down another hallway and climbed quickly up the stairs. Weisshaupt was an ancient fortress. The stone steps were worn and slick from hundreds of thousands of footsteps. Tapestries depicting brave Wardens from Blight’s past stretched along entire sections of walls, their colored thread faded with age. She passed by empty barracks. Once upon a time, Weisshaupt would have fed, clothed, and housed one-hundred-thousand Wardens. But there wasn’t even two-thousand Grey Wardens in Ferelden and only a few thousand spread across Orlais and the Free Marches combined.

They were diminished. _A dying order._ The Grey Wardens stood on the brink if history, occupying a space of absolute relevance and historical exile. In a few decades, Ana feared, there would be no more Wardens. The Blight would ravage and take everything from humanity, from the elves, from the dwarves, and even the Qunari.

If she failed to find the cure for the Taint, Thedas may as well throw in the proverbial towel. The Inquisition was strong; the Seeker would renew the strength of the failing Chantry: but even if they massed numbers beyond any army Thedas had ever seen, the Blight—the Archdemon—would level them all without the Grey Wardens to strike that final blow. _Unless, of course_ , Ana thought bitterly, _Morrigan should appear again_. Jealousy bloomed in her chest and she almost lost her footing as it twisted in her gut. Thinking about Morrigan always set her off.

She suddenly felt ashamed, Morrigan had always been her friend, and Ana had been the one to convince Alistair to lay with her. It wasn’t fair to blame Morrigan for her lost children. The library was near and Ana took a deep breath to calm herself. If she had to fight, she needed to let go of her sudden shame and jealousy.

Ana found the library antechamber, forced open the door, and made ready to fight any guard on duty. She found no one but the old librarian: he was a man holding onto the last vestiges of his humanity. The taint was taking its pound of flesh. His beard and hair were falling out in clumps, those teeth that had not rotted away, were stained brown and yellow, his eyes were tinged red, and his skin showed patched and grey-purple skin. He had gotten worse since her escape from the fortress. He was the kind of man who did not sleep until exhaustion took him—he feared sleeping, as if he might wake up as a hurlock.

_And to think_ , _he might have been saved,_ Ana thought as she locked eyes with him. The thing that saved Grand Enchanter Fiona, that might save the Grey Wardens…and the Order had hidden it, hidden it out of fear.

Finding it had been pure luck, or perhaps the Maker’s idea of a joke. But while rooting through the library, Ana had found Fiona’s original report…a report on talking darkspawn, black brooches, King Maric, and an ill-fated journey into the Deep Roads under Ferelden. It was not the first time she had heard of _talking darkspawn._

“Warden-Commander Cousland?” the old man rasped.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I had hoped you’d be sleeping,” 

“I do not sleep much these days,” he growled. His voice was different too. He should have answered the Calling sooner. But some Wardens, Ana knew, clung to the living world longer than they ought too. She herself, included.

“Will you be silent, or will you inform the First Warden of my presence here?”

“How did you even get here? You fled the fortress and the gates are on lockdown. No one goes in or out, by order of the First.” He rambled as if he had forgotten she was there.

“You mean by order of the Magister?” Ana demanded. She was more than willing to do whatever needed to be done when it came to the Grey Wardens, but making friends with a man who gives slaves as a gift…Ana would never go that far.

“Oreolous has the Order’s best interest at heart,” the librarian grumbled. “The slaves will be happier as Grey Wardens.”

“We do not take people against their will. Now, answer me! Do you intend to call for help? To stop me? You know what I’m here for, don’t you?”

The man was hardly a threat; she was still spry enough that she might find what she needed before he could actually find anyone to help him. But she couldn’t risk it. When he didn’t answer her right away, she drew her blade in hopes of motivating him. The steel and silverite was well worn, it would need reworking when she returned home, and two of the topaz jewels in the mabari hilt would need to be replaced. But it was a good blade and it would serve her for years to come.

“What you seek won’t help you,” the old man hissed. “A contract with Tevinter will save the Order. The Grey Wardens will continue, though I fear we must weed out the traitorous fools like you and the other Southern Wardens.” Ana saw his eyes dart for the door. She took her chance.

“Time to answer your Calling, brother,” she roared and rushed forward, sword outstretched. The Taint had slowed him; Ana’s blade took the librarian through the chest, spilling black tinted blood over the old chipped stones. He hissed and growled when she drew her blade out and let his corpse hit the ground.

Ana cleaned the blood from her sword with his grey robe and entered the library. It was dark, so she went back to the antechamber and found a beeswax candle the old man had been using to light his reading. She drove into the stacks, desperate to find the book and brooches she had hidden.

Rows and rows of books, some of them older than Weisshaupt itself were stacked on warped wooden shelving. Those walls that weren’t lined with books were decorated with well cared for tapestries of past Blights, the weapons of fallen darkspawn, the mounted horns of ogres, teeth of shrieks, the finger bones of hurlocks, and the taxidermy ears of genlocks. Here the macabre history of the Wardens was laid out for all of Weisshaupt’s inhabitants to see.

The tombs were in front of her. The tombs of those who had slain the Archdemon. Inside those rooms were the skeletons and ashes of the bravest heroes in all of Thedas. They had given their lives to kill an Archdemon.

_Garahel, where is Garahel?_ She found Garahel’s glass coffin. The horns of Andoral decorated the coffin, where the hero’s bow and armor rested. Garahel, hero of the Fourth Blight, had saved Thedas from destruction and his coffin had protected the future of the Wardens.

Ana set down her candle and jimmied open the lock on the coffin. With gentle reverence, she lifted the bow and gauntlets from the case, set them on the floor, and pulled up the faded blue padding in the corner of the box. Underneath she had hidden the slim, lambskin bound volume that carried the report of former Warden Fiona and Duncan. She took the book and slipped it into her tunic where it would be safe. Next, she lifted a small unassuming satchel, opened it and spilled the two small brooches into the palm of her hand.

They were small, unadorned things. Tarnished silver held a small, black stone in place, the hinges on the pin were rusted. Ana feared breaking them, so she quickly put them back into the bag and gently tucked them into her tunic.

Quickly, she put Garahel’s things back in their coffin, said thank you to the brave Warden, and put the lid back. _They will never lay my arms here to rest_ , she thought, with only a touch of bitterness. _I have not earned a glass coffin or the adoration of my fellow Wardens._

With her prize in possession, Ana hurried to join her fellows above in the armory.

The Wardens were working quietly and quickly to arm and armor themselves. The Inquisitor and her people stood at the other end of the armory. The Inquisitor’s men gathered around her like a wall of human shields as if they expected the Wardens to turn on them at any moment. Ana almost called over the quiet crowd “They won’t betray you, not now. You’re of use; Wardens don’t waste what is of use.” But that would hardly accomplish anything, even though many of the Wardens were still rather upset the Inquisitor had told the world about how Grey Wardens are made.

Seeker Cassandra had gone and found a regulation Warden Staff to replace the one the Inquisitor had lost in the Roads. It was too tall for the Inquisitor, the leaping griffon at the top of the staff towered over her.

“It’s a little bulky, I can’t cast if I can’t move,” the Inquisitor was saying as Ser Blackwall and Lady Hawke helped her into some old Warden Mage armor.

“I’d put you in heavy armor if I could,” Ser Blackwall grunted.

If there was more to be said, Ana turned her attention away and onto Oghren, who had just returned with two scouts. “They have fewer men,” the dwarf began. “And it’s almost dawn. If we want to catch the First Warden while he’s sleeping, now’s the time.”

The information was passed onto the Inquisitor, and, as if she had been commanding this group of Warden’s her entire life, said; “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to avoid bloodshed; if we find the Frist Warden and the Magister first, then we might end the battle before it begins.”

“We don’t know the castle, so someone will have to guide us,” Lady Hawke added, her husband was standing beside her with a batch of arrows. Ana watched as he tested them against his longbow. The arrows were too short for his reach; his draw power would suffer for it. Then, Ana noticed how scruffy, how tired and filthy they all looked.

There were signs of starvation. Master Tethras’ cloths hung off his limbs, now too big to fit him properly. Ser Blackwall’s beard was matted and coarse. Any hair once short and pristine was now wild and unruly. It was their eyes though, that made Ana turn away.

They were the eyes of wild and desperate people. People tired of fighting, of running, and most importantly, of hiding. Ana wondered if there was ever anything she could do to make up for what she had done. An apology was out of the question; if the brooches worked—if they worked the way she hoped—then it would be worth any wrath, any hatred. She would not apologize for that. But dragging them through the Deep Roads the way she had, had been wrong. Being surrounded by that kind of darkness was hard, even on someone who carried the Taint with her. To those unused to it, it could make them sick of heart. The best thing would be for them to get out of here and back to their homes.

But first, they had a job to do.

“Grey Wardens,” Caronel called. “We must find the First Warden and Magister Oreolous.”

Ana drew her blade and was through the armory doors with the rest of the Wardens. Oghren followed her when they mass of warriors split in different directions. It didn’t take long for the first sounds of battle to begin echoing through the fortress. It seemed that those who were loyal to the First Warden would be like the old Librarian, defiant and blind unto the end.

After the first clash of steel the fortresses’ alarms began ringing, rousing anyone from their beds and signaling attack. If they were lucky, those still sleeping would think it was darkspawn and not fellow Wardens; that might catch them off guard long enough for the element of surprise to remain.

Ana and Oghren broke away from the Inquisitor and her people. Valya had opted to lead them, they were in good hands for now, and Ana still needed to figure out what secret Dag had been executed for.

Together, the two Wardens rounded a corner and came face to face with three of the elven slaves made Grey Wardens. Ana, held her sword down so as not to threaten them. “Throw your arms down,” she told them. “Or help us fight your slavers, we can free you—fight me and I will have to kill you,”

The elves seemed confused for a moment, as if they didn’t speak the Trade tongue. To show them what she meant, Ana made a show of placing her blade on the ground. But, instead of taking it as a gesture of good faith, they took it as weakness and charged. Ana raised her blade to defend herself and then smashed a mailed fist into the mouth of the first slave, he fell, unconscious. It was better to knock them out than kill them.

Oghren seemed to recognize that too. He slammed the pommel of his battleax into the second elf and then smashed the flat of his blade into his temple, knocking him out. The third, seeing his friends downed, laid his sword on the ground and raised his hands in supplication and murmured in broken Trade for mercy.

Ana grabbed up his sword and tossed it away; they left him sitting on the ground. She vaguely remembered these halls. Her time in Weisshaupt hadn’t been very long; most of her wanderings had been following weak clues and chasing down wild geese. It was only when her journey drove her into the Anderfels that she decided to visit the fortress on the small hope that maybe what she needed was within its walls. She had found what she needed, along with treachery and the murmurings of a Grey Warden war.

The First Warden had a lofty tower room, if she recalled correctly. If he was still abed or in his chambers, she might be able to capture him alive.

“Traitors! For the Grey Wardens!” Ana heard the cry echo through the fortress halls. Steel rung through the stone and the smell of smoke caught her nose. If they were not careful, the Wardens might cripple themselves today.

“For the Inquisition! For the Herald of Andraste!” someone roared as Ana and Oghren came outside on the top of one of the walls. A roof to the west was burning and the courtyard was a mess of skirmishers. The sun had not yet risen, but the predawn light was enough to see by.

Below, Ana spotted the First Warden, decked in his full armor. His helm was silver and topped with a prancing griffon, his breast plate polished and his great sword sharpened. Behind him, the Tevinter mage stood, looking as puffed as a peacock, assured of victory. Facing them was the Inquisitor herself, the Seeker to one side and Ser Blackwall to the other.

Ana ran down the staircase and across the wooden bridge that connected the outer wall with the inner. Oghren called after her, but didn’t follow. She ignored him slammed down her mabari shaped visor and checked the straps of her shield. Another flight of stairs and she could feel sweat beading on her brow.

“First Warden!” She roared, leaping the last flight of stairs and landing on the ground between the First Warden and the Inquisitor. Her knees nearly went out from under her, but she stood fast and laid the flat of her sword against her shield. “The fight you want is with me,” her voice echoed loudly through her helm nearly deafening her to what the First Warden said.

“Commander Therin, I should have known; the traitorous Wardens are all of Ferelden stock.” He growled. “I’ll mount your head beside the Inquisitor’s, you’ve both ruined us and you’ll pay for the Warden blood spilt here!”

“You would start a war over a lost secret—it was time we let the world know—it was time we tell the truth.” She answered and then struck. “For the Grey Wardens!” she roared and let his blade slide along her shield. Ana was a large woman; tall and more thick than lithe with the kind of hands made for carrying a sword. Still, the First Warden towered over her. His size was almost intimidating. But all she had to do was remember Sten, the First didn’t seem so big. She knocked his blade aside, but he grabbed her armored wrist and pulled in hope of disarming her.

Ana pushed her weight forward and let them both fall to the ground. They both lost their blades and began a mad scrambled of steel and leather as they wrestled against each other. Ana’s helm protected her as the First Warden laid blows against her head. The sound was maddening—dizzying—but she reached for the dagger she kept in her belt and found a rivet in his mail. He disengaged and rolled away before she could stick all three inches of cold steel under his armpit.

Free of the First Warden’s grasp, Ana went for her sword. She was faster and the better swordsman, _he was just bigger_. It was like sparing with Alistair all those years ago, he didn’t win all the time, but when he did it was because he had three inches on her and more weight besides. If she could just get some height…

Ana snatched up her blade and dove out of the way just as a flash of lightning took the ground where she had been standing. The Magister laughed as Ana locked eyes with him. She wasn’t sure she could fight both the mage and the First Warden. The mage looked ready to strike again when the Inquisitor threw up a barrier of ice between them.

Ana smirked and almost laughed when she heard the Inquisitor call out; “Come on you Tevinter bastard, I’ve experience in defeating your kind—or are you afraid of a little girl?” A rock flew out of the void and slammed against the Tevinter mage. The ice barrier cracked under the Tevinter’s magic, ice chunked flew in all directions. Ana dove for cover and raised her shield to protect herself. Lightening and fire crashed together, temporarily blinding her.

The Inquisitor let fly a barrage of energy bolts, the magister threw up a barrier and then turned heel and ran as the bolts struck his magic shield.

“Don’t run from me!” the Inquisitor roared and gave chase, her companions beside her.

“Let the mages fight, Commander,” the First Warden huffed, as Ana turned her attention back to him. “This is Grey Warden business,” he charged her, his greatsword raised for a mighty swing.

Ana leapt back momentarily amazed at her own agility. She was tried and achy, but this was life and death. She tried to recall the last time she had moved like this. Against the Archdemon? Against the talking darkspawn? Against golems? She was too tired to remember exactly. When this was over exhaustion could have her for as long as it wanted. But not until she had removed the First Warden’s head from his body.

Still recovering from his charge, Ana sliced her blade across his side cutting through the blue and grey tunic and slicing metal. The blood on her sword said she had made a scratch, but nothing more. Dancing away from him, she pushed all her weight against her shield when he struck and let the metal and wood take the blow. Some of the wood splinted and the metal groaned, but she pushed away from him and struck with the point of her sword, catching the First Warden in his armpit gusset, and causing yet another minor scratch.

Enraged, the First Warden drove forward, forcing her to lose ground. She raised her sword in both hands and caught his next blow on the crosshilt of her blade. She saw the glint in his eyes and felt his foot connect with her belly, throwing her to the ground. But Ana kept tight hold on her sword. As long as she had her blade, she still had a chance.

The First Warden towered over her, blocking at the dawn light as it pressed against the cold stone of Weisshaupt. Ana would not let this place be her end. She had survived things no one should have survived. Seen things no one else had seen. She would not die so far from home, so far from Alistair.

When he was close enough, Ana struck. Her foot knocked his knee out from beneath him and he hit the ground, she grabbed his helmet, determined to pull the damn thing off him and look him in the eyes. She used her momentum to get back onto her feet, ripped off his helmet, slammed her knee into his chin and then her pommel into his teeth.

The First Warden grappled and knocked her away. His mouth was bloody with broken teeth and his nose was smashed in. He called out a stream of curses and took up his blade once more. But he was dizzy and Ana knew that the blow to his head had sealed his fate. He rose shakily to his feet and made a weak charge. Ana stepped away from the wavering blade and forced hers through the steel, leather, and cotton of his armor.

“For the Grey Wardens.” She whispered and pulled her sword free.

It was almost over then. Those who had been fighting for the First Warden surveyed his crumpled corpse and threw down their arms. The Magister was the only holdout, and only because he refused to surrender and the Inquisitor saw no point in killing him. She had him backed into a corner, all his strength going in to keeping up his barrier.

“Would someone clap him in irons?” The Inquisitor muttered. Whatever strength the healing had given her was gone. She looked ready to collapse again. She let Ser Blackwall ease her down on a stone planter while a few Wardens went forward and took care of the Magister.

Ana looked over the Inquisitor and her friends. “Thank you, Inquisitor, for you aide,”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the Inquisitor growled, “Captain,” she called for those Inquisition men they had found in the dungeon. “If you have a flag, raise it and send for reinforcements from Hossberg. I hereby requisition Weisshaupt Fortress. _This is my castle now.”_


	35. Chapter XXXV: the Inquisitor

**_Chapter XXXV – the Inquisitor_ **

After battle, Genevieve usually did three things whenever possible. First, she bathed. Then she prayed with whatever strength was left in her. Lastly, she slept. She skipped steps one and two; one because she feared drowning herself, and two because she thought the Maker might find it more insulting if she fell asleep in the middle of prayer than simple skipping it.

The Wardens gave her a private guest room usually reserved for visiting dignitaries. It hadn’t seen much use in the past few hundred years and smelled of dust and dank. Someone changed the sheets before she laid down though and the mattress was bug free from what she could tell.

She wasn’t sure when Blackwall joined her; one moment, it seemed, she was alone with the day light desperately trying to break through the shutters, the next she was wrapped in the warm musky sent of him, his arms holding her to his chest as if he were shielding her with his body. Consciousness came and went and even her time in the Fade was hazy with exhaustion.

When she was awake, she was in agony. Every part of her body had been pulled tight with exertion. She had gone into some of the most treacherous areas in all of Thedas—hiked and battled her way through them—and yet the work the Deep Roads had done on her body was  terrible. It felt like someone was driving a spike between her eyes and lashed her limbs to horses in hopes of pulling her apart piece by piece.

The mental pain was something else entirely. Sometimes she woke feeling as if a thousand beady yellow eyes were trained on her. _Broodmother_ …they whispered… _broodmother…_ her stomach clenched and she thought of a rusty blade finding a sheath in her belly of blood pooled on stone and how much of it was hers.

She bit her lip as day turned to night and wrapped herself in a blanket. Blackwall woke long enough to bring them food and water. They broke their fast and went back to sleep again.

Dawn was approaching and Genevieve had promised herself not to miss another dawn. Never again would she fail to appreciate the sunlight. So she forced herself onto her feet and told herself that feeling the sunlight on her skin would make her feel better. She dressed in spare clothes and hiked to the outer wall of Weisshaupt fortress.

The blue and grey griffon of the Wardens flapped below the green and gold eye of the Inquisition. She had asked Captain Needa to send a raven for reinforcements; she wasn’t sure how long she had slept for, but knew they would be along shortly. She would need more men for what might come. There was no telling what the Wardens might do to her if she rubbed their hospitality the wrong way.

After she had declared the fortress hers, the Wardens had protested and told her that a Warden had always held Weisshaupt. As the closest in command they had, the Wardens wanted Queen Ana as their temporary First Warden.

Genevieve had merely looked at the Queen; the older woman had shrugged. _“Then I defer power into the Inquisitor’s hands,”_ and that was all she said on the matter. It was met with mumblings and how they wouldn’t have asked for help had they known they were signing away their rights. They only quit their harping when a senior warden advised them; _“our era is over, no group or man has the right to their secrets so long as the Inquisitor is around to stick her nose in things.”_

Genevieve wanted to tell them that she was a victim of circumstance and that she was only doing what she could to protect her people. But it would have fallen on deaf ears. In their eyes she had ruined the Grey Wardens by shedding light on their abuses and without those secrets they lost some of their ancient power. And all people hated losing power, even if it meant they gained newer, better power later.   

So, here she was; an unwelcome conqueror far away from home and waiting for the sunrise to bring her a little solace.

The dawn broke and sunlight drenched her in soft rays. It was glorious; at first, the sky purple with the first etchings of light. Then a soft pink like the blossoming of spring peonies—the ones she planted by the well back in Skyhold’s garden. After the pink came orange and gold; light the color of eternal flame, the color of promise.

Genevieve welcomed the light and stared until she saw blackspots crawl across her vision. She turned and sat down on the cold stone to let the sun warm her back. That was where Blackwall found her. He was a welcome sight, even more so because he came baring food.

“There’s my little bird,” he muttered, almost mournfully. “my wife,” he placed a bowl of steaming porridge into her hands. Genevieve responded with a weak smile. She hadn’t yet told him how she managed to open the gate that blocked them from getting into the fortress. She spooned a gob of porridge into her mouth and swallowed. It was mostly tasteless, but for a little butter and salt. Genevieve preferred sweet things, honey and candies, sweet reds and heady dessert wines. Weisshaupt was not the place to fulfil her sweet tooth, although the Wardens kept bees, she hadn’t had a taste of honey since leaving for the Deep Roads.

After a few more bites, she placed her bowl down and fiddled with the stone ring Blackwall had given her. She hadn’t told the Warden’s how they got past the gate either; they hadn’t bothered to ask though. They were too busy licking their wounds and trying to figure out what to do with their new prisoners. She was keeping her plans to herself, when her reinforcements arrived, she would have more leeway. Genevieve respected the Grey Wardens, but they had a hard lesson to learn. It was fine to take aid and comfort from any nation in Thedas; but they served Thedas—not the Imperium, not Orlais, or Ferelden— _Thedas_. She would have to remind them of that.

“Are you feeling ill again?” Blackwall asked. She wanted to confide in him, but they were still too close to danger. She would let go of her hard Inquisitorial exterior when they were safer.

“The ring,” Genevieve whispered. The least she could do was tell him that she couldn’t keep it. “It’s a key,” she chanced a glance at him. He looked confused. “The gate Lady Hawke couldn’t pick—that’s because it took a dwarven key,” she slipped the ring off her finger and showed it to him. “It belongs to the Wardens,” she expected anger or disappointment. But the look that came upon his gaunt face was worse: _resignation._    

“Another thing you have to give up,” he muttered, bitterly, and pressed the ring back into her hands. “You keep it until you want to give it up,”

She nodded and put the ring back on her finger. He would get her another one, she didn’t need to hear him promise it; he would replace it when he could.

Slowly, she finished her porridge and stacked her empty bowl with Blackwall’s. She thought they made a pitiful sight with barrowed clothing hanging loosely off their bodies, their hair a mess of tangles. Blackwall’s beard had grown unruly and wild. He might look like some wild hedge knight if Genevieve didn’t know better. She usually kept her hair short, but she could feel the oily mess clinging to the nap of her neck and curling around her ears.

_Now’s a good time for a bath_ , she thought, and wondered if anyone else would be in the bathhouse this early in the morning.

“We’ll head home after this?” Blackwall asked.

“Yes.” Genevieve answered. They would make only one stop; Lord Bernard’s keep, so that they could collect their animals. Genevieve missed Fiend with desperate fierceness. The dracolisk had tugged on her clothes and tried to stop her from leaving as if he had known what would await them in the Deep Roads. After that, they would make for Cumberland and take a boat across the sea and ride straight for Skyhold. There, she would eagerly throw herself to the mercy of her advisors and beg their forgiveness for her hotheadedness.

“But,” she let the word linger longer than she wanted. “But, I need to clean up this mess first. We can’t leave the Grey Warden’s without a leader and…”

“Magisters concern you,” he finished for her.

“Yes. This whole thing worries me, once we have more men, I can hunt for some answers.”

Blackwall nodded. “I know I don’t need to plead a case for them, they can do that for themselves and you always render fair judgement—but—little bird, remember, Grey Wardens aren’t all like the First Warden or naïve like Clarel, or like the Queen.”

“I know,” she muttered.

“Most of them are just trying to right some of the wrongs they’ve done.”

She nodded and reached for his hand. “I know, love. I won’t forget that. I promise.”

That sated him and he helped her to her feet. He grabbed their empty bowls and said he would deliver them to the kitchen while she made for the bathhouse. Blackwall offered her his arm and she offered to walk with him halfway.

It was in the early morning darkness that they found Lady Hawke and her husband… _lurking_. They were standing close together in a dark corner and whispering back and forth. Genevieve could have called it suspicious if were going on in any castle other than Weisshaupt.

Both Prince and Princess looked up. The Prince had shaved his beard, trimmed his hair, and bathed. The Princess had washed up as well, but she looked like she had just seen a ghost.

_In an ancient blood-stained place like this?_ Genevieve thought, _sure, ghosts, why not?_

“Are you alright, Lady Hawke?” Genevieve asked reaching forward and placing the back of her hand on the Princess’s forehead to feel for fever.

Lady Hawke caught her hand and patted the top of her palm. “I’m fine, have you seen Varric?” She had suddenly shaken off that nervous look. It was as if she had been playing a role and had slipped back into the Lady Hawke Genevieve was more familiar with. Or, and Genevieve thought this the more likely, this _was_ the act.

“Are you sure, you looked like you saw a ghost just a moment ago,” Genevieve was getting pretty tired of being out of the loop when it came to the Hero and the Champion. She didn’t need to be spared any gory details, she wasn’t a child.

Hawke let a smirk fall across her lips and deflected; “I need to speak with Varric, your Worship, then would you join me for tea?”

“I haven’t seen Varric, he’s probably sleeping,” Genevieve answered. “And yes, tea would be lovely, lunch even better.” _Then I’ll get answers out of you._     

She and Blackwall parted from the Prince and Princess. When they were well away from the two Vael’s, Blackwall leaned down and whispered in her ear. “They’re up to something,”

“I’ll find out,” she told him and they went their separate ways—Genevieve to the bathhouse and Blackwall to the kitchens.

XXXX

Weisshaupt’s bathhouse was nothing particularly special. There were old pipes shaped like screaming griffon heads where she had to hang a bucket, draw her own water, and then carry it to a cauldron and boil it herself. She didn’t know anyone who might be big enough to lift the giant copper cauldron and fill the washbasin, so once it was warm she had to fill one bucket at a time and pour it into the tub.

She wasn’t used to carrying her own bathwater, but the effort was worth it when she stripped and submerged herself into the hot water. The grime of her travels immediately started to cloud the water.

Genevieve took her time and scrubbed from head to heel. Just to be safe and ensure she got every bit of the Deep Roads off her body, she scrubbed herself again.

It was hard to ignore the twisted flesh where the hurlock’s sword had taken her. She had spent a few nights forcing herself to pretend like it wasn’t there and pulling her fingers into a tight fist whenever they wandered towards the wound. But this time she let herself get familiar with the new blemish. It was, after all, part of her now.

Valya’s healing had done its job. The wound was sealed up and healed inside and out. Nothing remained but the pink and yellowish scar of the original wound and the burn. It didn’t hurt anymore, but it was ugly—not that she didn’t have her scars. She had plenty of them; not as many as the hardened warriors of her band; but there was one of her thigh, where an assassin had got her; one on her lip that wasn’t seen so much as felt—that one was from a red Templar, smashing her in the face with her lobstered gauntlet; there was another in her shoulder, and many others, but this one was the largest and the one she would never forget.

As the water turned tepid, Genevieve climbed out and dried off. She dressed in the spare clothing the Wardens had given her. They fit better than the things she had borrowed from Blackwall and Lady Hawke, but they smelled musty and the wool was scratchy. She wouldn’t complain; it was better than freezing.

She left the baths and was thinking about where Lady Hawke would want to have lunch when the Princess found her.

“Ah, there you are, your Worship,” she smiled and slipped her arm through Genevieve’s. “We’re having lunch in the vegetable garden, I thought you might like that,” Genevieve thought she would too, that was until they stepped out into the garden and felt the icy chill wind rising over the ridge and the great outer wall that surrounded  the fortress. A plain table had been set out with three chairs; one was occupied by Queen Ana.

Genevieve wrapped her barrowed cloak tighter around her and had to shout to be heard. “What’s this about, lady Hawke?” she demanded. She had hoped to get to the bottom of what was bothering the Princess, not tricked into supping with the Queen.

Lady Hawke released her and showed her to her seat. “Have a glass of wine, your Worship,” was the answer she got.

The Queen looked a bit smaller whenever Genevieve saw her out of her armor. She was wrapped up in a fur lined coat slashed with grey and blue. Her face looked pinched and sour, as if being dragged out into the cold had worsened an already foul mood. Lady Hawke poured them a glass of wine and the Queen took a long gulp from her cup. “I imagine you didn’t drag us out into this maelstrom to drink, what would you have of us, Princess?”

Lady Hawke sat down and helped herself to a bowl of dried fruit. “Eat,” she told them.

Genevieve was feeling distinctively uncomfortable. But, she took a sip of wine and felt as if the Maker had shinned His light down upon her. It was a sweet red; heady and syrupy, so red it was almost black in her cup. When she swallowed it left behind the taste of cherries and apricots.

“From the First Warden’s own personal stock, I helped myself.” Lady Hawke smirked as Genevieve took another drink. “Turns out, the First Warden’s personal store room is filled to the brim with nice things.”

“Like what?” the Queen demanded.

“What I can only imagine are the spoils of bribery and favors,” Lady Hawke had to yell over the wind just like the rest of them, but Genevieve could still hear the glibness of her tone. She was a snoop, no doubt about that, and Genevieve got the sense she was a little sister telling on a bigger one. She could only be telling on the Wardens.

“Among the choice casks of Orlesian and Imperium wine there were fine smoked Antivan hams, jugs of prime Ferelden cider, boxes of dried fruit and nuts,” as if to make her point she took a bit of dried apricot. “Bolts of silk and samite, not to mention the bags of gold—from every corner of Thedas.” Then she pushed a plate of sliced ham over to Genevieve. “Have some of that, your Worship, it has a slight taste of despair,”

Genevieve took a small piece of ham and realized that Lady Hawke was joking. It was a fine cut, but it was just smoked ham.

“Have some cheese too; the seal said it’s from Ostwick, your homeland.” It was a fine thick cheddar; the kind she served to her noble guests in Skyhold. Whatever point Lady Hawke was making, it wasn’t lost. The First Warden was eating as well as an Orlesian comte while his fellow Wardens ate salt beef and dried vegetables.

“What are you getting at, Princess?” the Queen asked, although she had poured herself another cup of wine.

“Oh, I’m not blaming you, _your Majesty._ And I’m not one to disparage the rich for their wealth, nor bemoan the plight of the poor. But while all this rich food and wine is a lovely treat it comes with the faint whiff of corruption—I lived in Kirkwall for years, I know quite a bit about corruption. The First Warden’s quarters are rank with it.”

“Get to the point,” the Queen growled. She was taking Lady Hawke’s criticism as a personal insult. Genevieve didn’t think that was what the Princess meant, but she was certainly wording it that way on purpose. “Are you saying that the Wardens are taking bribes, that they’re—”

“ _Oh no, no, no_ ,” Lady Hawke chuckled; it was lost to the wind. She tipped the rest of her glass into her mouth and poured another. “I’m touting the corruption of this particular First Warden and those who gave him favors.” She took a bit of cheese. “I would be glad to show you where I discovered these delights, but I have something a little bit more wild in mind. Would you care to take a field trip, your Worship? I promise you it will be worth it.”

Genevieve finished her wine and poured another cup. “What do you mean?” She asked, although she was still thinking about the vintage.

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s in the fortress. The others will be joining us shortly. I sent Varric and Sebastian to round them up.”

After Genevieve finished her second cup, Lady Hawke led her and the Queen into the belly of Weisshaupt fortress. There, they found Sebastian waiting with Cassandra and Oghren.

“Where’s Varric?” She asked.

“We’re here,” came a voice down the hall. Varric was leading Blackwall towards them. “He was trimming up his beard, I had to wait.”

Blackwall had in fact trimmed up the unruly mass of hair on his face. Genevieve found herself smiling. He always looked so handsome when it was neat and trim. “What’s going on?” He grunted. She caught of whiff of soap too, although the hair on his head was in dire need of a cut.

“Lady Hawke is showing us something,” Genevieve explained, reaching for his hand. He took it, kissed her knuckles, and they followed Lady Hawke down the hall.

They walked from one end of the fortress to the other and Lady Hawke guided them up some steps then another short hallway to round turret of stairs. Each stone step was well worn with use and the arrow slits let in cold gasps of air making the tower howl like some great beast in agony.

When they reached the top of the stairs they were leaps and bounds above the rest of the fortress. Genevieve peered through one of the slits and looked down at the fortress. There were a few Wardens on the walls, but for a castle of such size they were little more than lookouts. Weisshaupt’s defensibility lied in its location; mountainous cliffs and only one road up to the barbican. _Except for the Deep Roads_ , Genevieve thought and twisted the ring on her finger again.

From this height she thought could see the sea—it was an illusion. All she saw the blackened devastation brought on by the Fourth Blight. It was nothing like the great chasm in the Western Approach—but the broken earth stretched on and on. Fertile farmland rendered useless as if the Blight had sown the land with salt. There was no telling if that land would ever be settled again, if it would ever produce crops again; certainly not in her lifetime, or her children’s lifetime.

Viewing the destruction from the tower was sobering. _The Wardens are the only ones who can stop the Blight and they’ve come too close to destruction one to many times_ , Genevieve thought. She had given the Southern Wardens their autonomy hinged on the promise that they would help the Inquisition fight Corypheus and reveal their long held secrets. _But what to do about these Wardens?_

Blackwall drew her out of her thoughts. “Is there a reason you’ve made us hike up here, Lady Hawke?”

“This way,” was all she said, as she rounded the turret and they came to a sheer stone hallway. The hallway lead to a single door, barred and jammed and guarded by two Wardens in griffon helms. The guards were slumped against the wall, their spears forgotten on the ground. Their heads were resting against their chests, they looked as if they were sleeping…although dead was more likely.

Genevieve released Blackwall’s hand and jaunted forward. “Lady Hawke, you go too far.” She growled, taking her knees beside the first guard. She fiddled with the strap of his helm. When she finally got it off and pressed her fingers to the pulse point of the Warden’s neck was when Lady Hawke finally spoke.

“Sleeping powder,” she said, taking the helm off the other Warden and laying her flat against the ground. “They’ll be out for a few hours, and a little dizzy when they wake, but no permanent harm done, your Worship.”

“You may very well have ruined any chance I have to reach them—you’ve made me an enemy in their home,” Genevieve eased the other guard on the ground in hopes he would be more comfortable.

“No offense, your Worship,” Hawke chuckled darkly. “You’re already an enemy in their home. They’re counting the days till you take your leave, and the only thing that keeps them from snapping you up and throwing you down in their dungeon is the Queen and those nine little soldiers you have with you; you’re not safe. Not even with those reinforcements on the way.”

Sebastian knelt down beside Genevieve and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Your Worship,” he muttered as if he was trying to soften the words his wife had said. “You need to see what’s behind this door. Then you’ll understand.” He stood and helped her to his feet. He nodded to his wife and Lady Hawke produced a key from the bodice of her tunic.

“Behold,” she unlocked the door in two quick movements. “the greatest Warden secret,” she pushed the door open and they were greeted with a sound not heard in Thedas since the Fourth Blight.

“Andraste’s tits.” Cassandra cursed.

Genevieve refused to step forward. The eyes that meet her glowed in the afternoon light. A dragon was one thing, but this beast— _these beasts_ —she corrected when she noted there was more than one; these beasts were something almost mythical, legendary to the point that a small part of her always felt that they _weren’t real_ despite what history said.

The pictures in her history books had done them no justice. These creatures were more feathered than furred. Their eyes were predatory. Not the same way a dragon was predatory; these... “Griffons,” she finally said the word aloud. They looked intelligent, as if they knew they weren’t supposed to be here.

“I told you it was worth it,” Lady Hawke smirked. That was why they’d found her in the hall looking as if she’d seen a ghost. _Because she had._  Griffons were supposed to be dead.

But these were very real, very alive. They even smelled leonine; it was almost fetid the way the stench of cat and bird mingled. There were bones and thatching on the ground, old ruined feathers. The biggest of the grown griffons finally laid its head to its shoulder and started preening as if the new visitors _bored him_.

Genevieve shut the door with more force than she intended and turned to face her companions. The Queen looked almost as stunned as she did. She opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but she closed it suddenly.

“How did you find them?” Cassandra asked, her voice was flooded with astonishment.

“I have restless feet, Seeker. And a terrible habit of sneaking around things that don’t belong to me,” the Princess answered.

“Dag died for this? Why keep this kind of secret from the rest of the Order?” the Queen was asking no one in particular. Then, she laughed bitterly. “The Wardens have always been their own worst enemy.”

They continued going back and forth, discussing what Lady Hawke had found and what it meant for them. But Genevieve was silent. It changed things—it changed how she was going to go about her judgements. The implications though…as Inquisitor she always had to put the wellbeing of Thedas as a whole above that of an individual group or country. The knowledge that the griffons were returned would ripple through the world.

The Wardens had not been very good stewards of the griffons, she had once read. It had been a stuffy old history book given to her by some Orlesian noble she couldn’t remember the name of. In it, the author (another Orlesian noble she also hadn’t bothered to remember the name of), had spent much of the book haranguing the Grey Wardens for crimes real or imagined. It had been given to her, she was certain, in hope of changing her opinion on the Wardens. There were some nobles who were still angry that she had allowed the Wardens to keep their Right of Conscription.

_Things are still tenuous in Orlais_ , Genevieve thought, _if someone gets it into their head that they should have a griffon, I would not doubt that an army of chevaliers would come knocking._

But another, darker thought overtook her. _The Magister and his gift of slaves._   

She lifted her hand to her forehead and felt a mighty headache coming on. _And only stopped because we fumbled our way through the dark on a hunch._ She reached for the wall and leaned against the cold stone.

Blackwall was at her side in an instant. “Are you alright?” he asked, his concern interrupting all conversation.

“I want you, for one moment,” Genevieve muttered so low she saw Cassandra lean forward to hear. “To imagine an Imperium army mounted on griffons. And ask yourself how long the Inquisition could last against them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m just having motivation issues. I’m not abandoning this story, I promise. I do hope you enjoyed this chapter at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, comments, kudos are always appreciated!


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